Playing the Saviour
by Michaela90
Summary: Movie Verse: On November the Fifth, Evey has to make a choice between saving the life of the man she loves, or fulfilling his dreams of revolution. She chooses the man. But what of the consequences?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes**: _After watching V for Vendetta in US History, I fell in love with it, and went out and bought myself a copy. This story is **movie **based, and from what I've read about the comic version, I don't think I'll like it as much since it lacks Evey/V romance. _

_This is my take on the way things could have gone in VFV if V had lived through the night._

_**Warnings:** Adult themes and language will be used in this story, as well as mentions of Evey's torture._

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In the year 2025, there was not a man, woman, or child who had not experienced the devastating loss of a loved one; living in a world filled with war, disease, and black- bagging made it all the more inevitable. Like the rest of her countrymen, Evey Hammond had too experienced the touch of death in her life, but never before had it hurt with such intensity. As Evey cradled the bleeding V in her arms that night, she knew she was losing him with every shaky, shallow breath he inhaled.

_"I fell in love with you, Evey."_

V's words reverberated in her mind over and over again, so that a second felt like a lifetime, but in that moment she simply could not comprehend their meaning. Her subconscious was trying to scream at her to listen, to hear, to understand what V had said and to tell him everything that lived within the darkest reaches of her heart, but fear stultified any bedside confessions she might make.

In those terrible minutes she had been holding him and pleading with him, a fear had gripped her heart, the likes of which she had never known. Evey had believed that V's pseudo-prison had forced the fear out of her, but this was so different that she could hardly find a comparison. Her fears had always been for _herself, and_ now it was all for him. Her own safety was obsolete.

A determination was mingled with all that fear; it raced through her blood and grew with every second. "He. Must. Not. Die." Was fast becoming her inner-mantra, insisting that V had to live, at **any** cost. It was overwhelming sensation for Evey and for the first time in her life she felt like she had a purpose with true meaning. The desire to save him filled a void in her she never knew existed; it became the essence of her very soul. She had lost her brother to the St. Mary's virus; been orphaned due to England's political climate, but losing V would be the greatest catastrophe she had ever known.

"I don't want you to die." Evey managed to whisper in a pain-filled choke.

Inwardly, she cringed as she said it, knowing that it was a childish sentiment, and the manner in which it had been said sounded juvenile to her ears. She wanted to give him hope, to make him see that there could be a life for him past November 5th. Instead, she had consecrated his dire situation with her worries and self-indulgent cries.

The subtle shift in V's breathing lets Evey know that he had opened his mouth to speak. It was strange, she reflected, how the cold porcelain and steel façade, never changed it's unnerving grinning face was just as much of a face to her now as any amount of flesh ever could be. She had learnt to sense his changing moods rather than see them, and she could feel the bittersweet smile that adorned his face when she spoke.

"That is the most beautiful thi…" V began in a trembling mockery of his usual eloquence. Evey interrupted him with a harsh cry.

"Don't say it!" Her voice was laced with panic and dread, "I'm not going to give up on you V. Not when there is still some small chance to save you."

V couldn't understand her devotion, as much as he felt the better man for being the recipient of it. "I promised you truth, Evey." He rasped out, "And so help me God, but I will not break my word. I ask…I am begging for you to let me die. The world no longer needs V."

His words were frank, flat and dull compared to his usual flowery prose. His voice was earnest in a way she had never heard before, and she tried to not let it shake her resolve. He saw himself as a monster, a self-made weapon with limited life expectancy, and Evey saw potential for millions of beautiful things.

"You're right," she murmured softly, her voice still rich with tears, "V was an idea, and now that idea is alive in the hearts and minds of the entire nation. V _can_ die. But you are _more_ than V, more than idea, more than the revolution you've so meticulously crafted. You are a man that I have come to call my friend, a man I've come to love. I can't just let that man die."

V didn't speak, but there was no need to. The passion in her voice, the gleam in her eyes, and the truth of her words that he had so long tried to forget or ignore were persuasive inducements. The tilt of his head, the grinning Guy Fawkes mask looming up at her, the raven wig in disarray, all seemed to be calling to her, "Save me from death Evey, and save me from myself."

He emitted a low and feral groan, something so alien to his lips that Evey started. With it, he slipped from consciousness due to the pain of his wounds, despite her best efforts to keep him awake. "Please V," Evey muttered, as her fear grew paramount once more, "please stay with me."

She glanced between the revolutionary who asked for nothing but to die in peace, to the train where his revolution was patiently waiting to happen. She could have pulled the lever while V had left her alone, she could have pulled it in all that time she had had since he returned, but she hadn't, and now it was too late. Every second spent debating was now a precious second of V's life fading, and Evey had to choose between the idea and the man.

She chose the man.

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**Author's Notes:** _Please Review :D_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes:** _Many thanks go out to the three reviewers of my first chapter, I apperciated it very much. I'm very happy that this story has (so far) been well received._

_Chapter Two takes place directly after the first, and I consider it more of the second part to the first rather than a separate entity. Please keep that in mind while reading._

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How Evey managed to get V to the nearest hospital was a jumble in her head. Her adrenaline had been running high, and she had found his tall, lithe body surprisingly light as she hoisted him over her significantly smaller frame. She could recall the sound of her feet against the pavement, trying to run with a close to twice her weight slung over her shoulder.

She stumbled up to the emergency unit entrance of Our Lady of Grace Hospital and glanced at it with a slight cringe. The building was fully decorated in Norsefire paraphernalia, from the color schemes to the enormous illumined portrait of the high chancellor on the side of the building that spanned several stories. She tried to shake off the eerie feeling that his eyes were boring down on her in a condescending gaze as she lay V down on a patch of grass to remove his cape, weapons, wig and mask. Evey's notion was that it was best to remove anything on V that gave away his identity and to hide it away in decorative plant life in front of the entrance, so that he remained anonymous, thus securing the safety of all parties involved.

She allowed herself a moment of regret for bringing V to there, but instinct and adrenaline had guided her footsteps rather than reason. Evey knew that a place so connected to everything V stood against would be the very last situation he would want to be on the eve of his would-be revolution; and she was happy for his unconsciousness, so that he couldn't make any protests, or point out the circumstantial irony of the moment.

There was no wasting of time once any remnants of the terrorist were carefully concealed. Evey swung open the clear glass door, dragging V's weak frame in her wake. She screamed bloody murder, the only way she could concoct to receive any assistance or service. Upon seeing her blood soaked figure on their doorstep, two nurses rushed forward ushering for her to come inside. When the hospital staff realized that it was not Evey's needs they were needed to attend to, V was rushed inside and taken into room, a trail of stony faced doctors and busy nurses following. They left Evey standing in the doorway unassisted, a wave of physical and emotional exhaustion hitting her with force.

A long time passed before Evey managed to will her legs to move inside the actual emergency room, and her thoughts were pleasantly empty, the strain of the day's trauma had numbed her for a while. When logical thoughts tried to sneak in they told her to sit down, to rest; they assured her that V would not be walking through the doors at any moment, telling her the whole thing had been an elaborate hoax in order to teach her a lesson. It took the gentle prodding of a young and squeamish orderly who had been making a nuisance of himself trying to help, to coax Evey back to reality with promises of clean clothes and other small comforts.

The mantra had not left her head yet, and as Every waited for news, any news, "He. Must. Not. Die." Cycled through her consciousness, as rhythmic and sure as her heartbeat. The words had yet to lose any of their urgency or meaning to her.

The fear that had been compelling her ever since heavily wounded V had turned the corner, took a vice-like grip on her heart as memories and images came to the forefront of her thoughts in rapid succession. She was seeing V and all the ways he had touched her life, she saw her own transformation from a frightened girl into a confident woman, and her heart ached, wishing she had understood him then like she did now. Their time together replayed in front of her eyes; her rescue from the fingermen, the first time he made her breakfast, watching The Count of Monte Cristo together, the absurd outfit he made her wear for Bishop Lilliman, her torture, their dance, his confession.

"He did so much for me," Evey said in a whisper audible to only herself, "and how did I repay him for any of it?"

A small, weak, voice in the back of her head had the answer for her, but Evey's train of logical thought was reluctant to let to it speak, terrified that what finally admitting it to herself might mean.

"You fell in love with him, Evey. You fell in love with him, and that gives him a reason to live besides his vendetta. That is repayment enough."

It was a simple thing when said like that, but the implications of it, the history they shared made any kind of confession a complicated matter. Evey's only hope was that her love, her strange, twisted, complex, love, would be enough for V to forgive her for this one night. She had gone against everything he wanted…abandoned his revolution, took him to the hospital instead of allowing him to die, but her most grievous sin was that she had seen his face.

Evey shivered, the image of it burning into her memory. The illumination from the chancellor's portrait had been the only light to be found, and as she gingerly removed V terrorist apparel eerie shadows fell across his lithe body. She removed the mask last, knowing how badly she was violating his personal space, hoping he could understand the necessity of it. Evey knew not to expect some man of great beauty underneath it, and did her best to avoid looking at him out of respect, but she was human and could not help some small curiosity.

Once, in what felt like a lifetime ago, Evey had seen V's hands. They were mottled and almost dead looking, frighteningly red skin was marked with thin white scars. He had been cooking breakfast for her the morning after he had salvaged her from the chaos at Jordan Tower, and brought her to the Shadow Gallery. She hadn't been repulsed then and instead had felt pity and compassion…but nothing had prepared her for that face.

It was a hideous and yet tragically beautiful site to behold. Like his hands, the skin was a bright crimson that made him look almost hot to the touch and deep white scars resembled an intricate spider web. There was no hair on V, not even the trace of an eyelash, and the lack of it gave him a look that was all hard angles and aided in making him appear even more alien. Where there should have been a nose and ears, there was only cartilage covered in a slight layer of that same red casing. His lips somehow, were in perfect condition but they were rough to the touch, and remarkably dry. In a mesmerized moment, she had traced the contours of that deformed face with a ingenuous finger, but when she realized what she was doing Evey felt as though she had thoroughly raped him of his dignity, and the guilt of it was still eating away at her conscious while she waited for some word of him.

A few minutes before midnight, a copper-headed and weary looking nurse walked into the waiting room, headed towards Evey with a look filled with purpose.

"Miss Smith," she said briskly, greeting Evey with the name she had given the desk workers and shaking her outstretch hand, "Thank you for waiting here so long, after you've been through such an ordeal."

"Yes," Evey responded, "but I'll be all right…what news can you tell me?"

The nurse frowned, causing a small wrinkle to appear in her forehead. "Please understand that this isn't normally my job, Miss Smith…but I do have some good news."

"Good news?" Evey asked, her voice filling with a lightness she didn't remember ever being there before.

"I won't push luck and call his condition right now anything less than critical, Miss…but the man is out of any immediate danger." The woman began.

A cry of relief rose from Evey's throat at the words, a mixture between a sob and a laugh that became strangely twisted. "Thank God." She replied, and she felt the fear for him that had been growing inside of her lose some of its hold.

"This is nothing short of a miracle." The nurse continued, "Over thirty bullets were found in his torso and his legs so far, yet none of them did any serious damage…" She paused, as if not quite believing it herself. "Blood loss and infection are the real potential killers now, and we are fighting off those as best we can."

Evey nodded eagerly and asked perplexed, "His organs weren't damaged?"

"Heavens no!" she responded, her upper teeth pinching her lower lip in gesture of frustration. "That's what's so shocking about the whole thing, my dear. It seems utterly impossible that the patient is alive, and relatively unharmed…there is a possibility of extensive damage to the nervous system, and we'll have to keep him here to be monitored for two weeks at the very least."

"Two weeks!" Evey exclaimed in disbelief. As relieved as she was that V was alright, (to a certain extent), she knew that there was no way she could convince him to stay so long, and Evey would be inclined to agree! Without her at Victoria Station to pull the lever, there would be no revolution, and Norsefire would not be usurped. It simply was safe for the pair of them to remain any place above ground for too long.

"It very well could be longer, child. That all depends on the results of the tests and such."

Evey frowned and turned away from the kind lady, resting her head against the window frame behind her. She glanced outside into the night sky, thinking of the pros and cons of leaving V to heal at the hospital. She sighed heavily and closed her eyes…and for a second thought she heard music.

"Do you hear that?" Evey softly asked her companion.

A pale face turned towards Evey. "Today's the fifth, isn't it?"

Evey said nothing, but nodded vigorously, raising the thick blinds and peering into the night. "It's music…" she muttered under her breath, "his music."

The plump nurse rushed next to her spot pressing an upturned nose against the glass. "I didn't think it would actually happen…." She whispered hoarsely. "As much as I wanted to believe that someone could stand up to them…I couldn't."

Evey made no response as the pair watched the parliament building suddenly burst into flame. The flames were a magnificent sight against the black backdrop of the night, and as fireworks launched into the air, she felt a grin spread across her face. V's dream was coming true before her eyes and Evey's heart swelled for him. She wished he was standing beside her then, making some profound comment on the vision of horrifying loveliness before them, or spouting out some silly quote.

She couldn't understand what was happening…she hadn't pulled that lever. She wasn't the cause of this. Chimes rang, signaling the midnight hour marking the day as the sixth. She stared out the window long after the display had ended, a thousand different scenarios playing in her head. Had it been rigged all along? Had V entrusted the task to someone else in case she failed?

Or had some random civilian found up at Victoria Station and pulled the lever….and if so…_Who was it?_

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**Author's Notes:**_ Please review! It's the best encouragement towards updates. :D_


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes: **_The response I've received so far is completely amazing! 16 reviews for only two chapters is the fastest amount of feedback I've ever gotten in my years here on I'm extremely grateful, and I hope you continue to enjoy and review!_

_I would have updated faster, but for the past week I was visiting relatives in the Carribbean Islands, so I was a bit busy. A good portion of this was actually written on the plane ride to and from!_

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When V's eyes softly began to flicker open, the first thing he thought of was the color red. He could see it everywhere, a vibrant scarlet flash imprinted in his memory. He attempted to shake the memory out but it was difficult for him to make out anything clearly as his head pounded. He blinked once and then again, forcing his eyes to focus on his surroundings. 

The room V lay in was a pale shade of that red, with a picture of the chancellor adorning the wall directly in his line of vision, not exactly the first face he was desirous of seeing as he came to his sense. Late afternoon sunlight seeped in through the semi-open blinds on the wall to his left, casting a warm yellow glow throughout the room. He stared at the blinds for a moment trying to recall why their crimson hue should bother him so…and then with astonishing clarity, the events from the night before began to flood the forefront his consciousness.

First he saw Evey, giving him a quizzical look, and heard himself say, "A revolution without dancing is a revolution not worth having." V could feel his gloved hand tenderly holding hers, could feel the slight weight of her against his shoulder as he led her through their dance. His voice was far away and hallow sounding, and Evey's face blurred with rapid speed.

Then sporadically and just as quickly as the first came a vision of the High Chancellor, dead eyes staring up at him in disbelief even with the bullet hole in his forehead and the Scarlet Carson tucked into his jacket lapel. With a rush V saw his hands around Creedy's neck, could hear his spine sever once more.

But then came the blood. He saw it first simply as red, but slowly he could feel it pouring out of his body, smell it and taste it as it trickled down his face. V felt trapped and terrified in a way he had no recollection of experiencing before, and his whole body rattled with anguished cries he refused to left loose. A very small, cold and calculating side of his mind knew he was hallucinating and it vainly struggled against the oppressive nightmare that plagued him.

And then somehow, V remembered. He heard the bullet shots, watched as they flew at him, and could feel the wounds sting and ache as his mind replayed each one. He saw him hack away with a daring precision as Creedy's goons fruitlessly attempted to reload their guns before they were all gone. V could hear their cries as he ended each life, and felt a slight pang of regret. He didn't relish in the human feeling too long however, because all he could think of was the blood.

V remembered being badly wounded, perhaps even fatally so. He touched his chest gingerly, trying to see if it had all been real through his fingertips, and painfully grimaced when his skin felt like fire. With the touch, his memory found depth, and V could see the detail that had been lacking from all the others. He could clearly recall how he had ignored the pain in order to finish his job, and how as soon as they were all dead, he had almost collapsed. V could see himself slinking through the tunnels of the Underground using the walls as support in order to see her one last time…to admit what he felt.

But after that…there was nothing, no darkness, no pain...simply oblivion.

He didn't know if he had made it to Evey…As a matter of fact, V didn't even really know if he was alive or dead. His eyes drifted towards the muted scarlet ceiling and with a grimace he wondered if this was all some kind of hell. Was he to be disoriented and bedridden in such a place for the rest of eternity? What sort of punishment was that? What did it say about his time here? Trying to gather his wits, V attempted to discern which circle of hell this particular situation would fall under according to Dante, but he was rewarded with an increase in his headache.

He was shaken out of his reverie when he heard it...a soft, beautiful sigh. V felt his heartbeat quicken at the noise and his breath caught in his chest. "Evey?" V called, barley above a whisper. He turned his head though it pained him to do so, trying to determine if it had been nothing but his imagination. He saw her then, leaning against the bed he was in, fast asleep but by his side. V couldn't believe his eyes.

"Evey?" he called again, this time harder and with some small urgency.

Evey shifted and sighed again, then slowly opened a bleary eye, unsure of what had awoken her. She stretched her neck still mostly asleep, allowing it a good crack, and then cast the seemingly sleeping V an affectionate (yet worried) smile. She turned her head to glance at the time with a frown, and wondered how six hours had passed so swiftly.

"Evey, please."

Her head snapped towards Vat the words, which he said in a harsh whisper. Swiftly any of her previous weariness dissipated. She looked at him, disbelief and joy clear in her eyes and gathered his hand in her own. V squeezed it in reply, showing himself that she was really there, tangible and alive, rather than an angel of mercy or the devil's means of tormenting him.

"The doctors told me that if you woke up with in the course of the day it meant you'd live." Evey whispered, her energy almost totally drained, save her spark of determination. "Thank God." She continued.

V felt the corners of his lips begging to be pulled into a faint smile. "Yes," He said, although not at all sure what his meaning was, "I suppose God would be a good figure to give your thanks, since the divine never seems to require anything more in this day and age."

Evey grinned then, her whole heart showing it's true color in that beautiful smile. "You're really with me. It seemed so certain that you wouldn't come back...or worse, that you'd die. I'm so happy and so grateful V...I can hardly believe this is all happening."

His world spinning before his eyes, V did his best to keep his eyes on her as he fought off the dizziness that had hit him with vigor. "It seems I can deny you no happiness, Evey." V said in a tone close to soothing. "Say the word to me and the Earth is yours."

She smiled again, softly and warmly, the strain of the day taking it's toll on her. "I was supposed to call for a nurse the moment you awoke…if you awoke at all that is. People have been streaming in and out of here all day…warning me that detectives would be coming to question me, insisting that I leave you alone for a while…but I couldn't bring myself to…You must be awfully confused…and it wouldn't be fair really…" She trailed off blushing lightly.

"Fair?" V intoned, perplexed.

In a gesture of understated affection, Evey brought the hand she held up to her cheek, placing a gentle kiss on the disfigured palm. "In the year I've known you, never once did you abandon me when I needed you. How could I not do the same in return…what sort of friend would I be?"

"Friend?" V parroted, beginning to lose his unsteady footing in reality once more.

"Yes V," Evey replied, her eyes fluttering closed as she nestled into the comfort of his touch. "friend."

He watched her in a drug induced haze with a smile on his lips not totally understanding the depth of his feelings towards Evey even out of the influence of heavy pain medication. Extending a long brittle finger to stroke the velvety skin within his reach, V happily reflected upon the strange circumstances that he should know such a woman, the drugs coursing through his blood allowing him to ignore any pressing matters for a few moments. Content in staring at her for a short while, the realization of the bright red skin against her white brought him down from the clouds.

V wrenched his hand away from Evey, and her eyes shot open confused and disappointed. The color of the skin was tinting his vision, and V painfully bolted upright clutching his hands before him in a panic. "Gloves!" He barked, not attempting to conceal any rage. "Gloves!"

Evey paled, the light dying in her eyes. "V!" She whispered sharply and urgently, "V the doctors took them off…it's nothing but procedure."

Realization dawned in his eyes, although this did nothing to quench any of his sudden anger. "And the mask, Evey," V said in an acidulous whisper his fingers gently prodding his bandaged face, "Did the doctor's take that off as well?"

Evey hesitated, not knowing how to say what she least wanted him to know…but feeling in every fiber of her being that she had to give him the truth. Before she could make any response however, V was unconscious once more his body slumping over onto the bed. The heavy morphine and other drugs in V's system prevented almost any physical exertion, and the adrenaline of his anger had quickly been subdued. Evey numbly adjusted his position to something more comfortable, and pulled up the rumpled blankets to properly cover his thinly clad frame. When she had absolutely no strength left to suppress it, Evey buried her face in her hands and sobbed until she, like V, passed out from exhaustion.

vFv

By the time Dominic arrived at Our Lady of Grace Hospital to answer the frantic calls that had been plaguing his office all day, the mysterious woman and the disfigured patient had absconded into the night. A suspicious doctor had thought that the bullet-ridden man in his care was most likely a wanted criminal, and patient confidentially merely a pretense, was desperate to get the pair out from his watch. Revolution or not revolution, he had persisted until Dominic had given in and come, his curiosity getting the best of him.

Dominic had no idea if he still had a job or the authority to make arrests or to ask the kinds of questions he interrogated the hospital staff with, but it seemed a strange coincidence that such a patient had checked in on the Fifth of November, accompanied by a young woman. Keeping in mind what Finch had told him about not believing in the things, Dominic asked and thought and wondered, trying to make the strange events of the day (parliament, the mysterious patient, and the missing Party Leader and Chancellor) connect.

He swore to himself as he headed out of the hospital and sat down in his car desperately searching for a pack of cigarettes that Finch might have left somewhere. In the moment, it seemed necessary. "God damn it, where are you Eric?" He asked for the millionth time within in the course of the day…and as the clocks marked the midnight hour, Dominic still had no answers.

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**Author's Notes:** _Well, I guess you won't be finding out who pulled the lever just yet...but you clever reviews seem to already have the picture. :D_

_And as always, please review!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes:** _Many gracious thank-you's go out to my reviewers as always, and in return, another update in less than twenty-four hours! I hope that even though most readers will have some more catching up to do, they will still leave a review for both chapters, but just one would still leave me perfectly content. _

_This chapter features no V or Evey (heart-breaking, I know!) and helps the plot to move on a bit more, (although the majority of you seem to have me all figured out!)._

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Well past midnight on November the fifth, a resounding knock pounded on the door of Eric Finch's home. The man of the house had had barricaded himself inside almost a day earlier wishing only to have the company of his well stocked liquor cabinet. Having been a heavy drinker years before ever becoming a Norsefire party member, he was well versed in the lovely way the stuff could allow him to forget, and the things he had seen…the things he had _done_ warranted him some respite from unpleasant thought, if only he could manage to drink enough to surpass the tolerance he had built towards it.

His friend and detective underling had been pestering him all day, and after several messages on both his cell phone and land line, Eric finally caved in and decided to permit him entrance. He gently placed the nearly empty bottle of scotch-whiskey on the glass coffee table at his feet, and stumbled up to answer the door. He manuevered through the dark living room and into the hall, wincing at the racket Dominic was making hammering on the door and shouting. Nearing sobriety but not quite clear-headed, the Chief Inspector began to regret his decision even as he turned the knob.

"Inspector!" Dominic was thankful to see the boss and friend he nearly idolized alive and well, and flew into his home in a flurry of relief and vast annoyance.

" 'Ello Dom." Finch muttered, clearly none too thrilled at the prospect of company.

"Where the bloody hell have you been all this time!" Dominic spat, full of self-righteous rage. "I haven't seen or heard from you since I left you at Victoria's Station…and do you realize all the chaos that's been happening since then?" Feeling along the wall, he flicked on a light switch, and Eric swore from the pain of the momentary blindness.

"Jesus Christ," Dominic continued, "you stink. Have you just been sitting here in the dark for the past four hours drinking while the world goes mad on your fucking doorstep?"

Finch knew that Dominic's words rang true, yet still found himself feeling slightly miffed by the accusation. He held up a hand to stop the younger man's ramblings and replied, "Now that's not wholly accurate…I did spend quite a few hours out investigating…and then come home for a bit of a pick-me-up that was a bit overdone, admittedly."

Dominic frowned then, his anger subsiding easily. "Inspector," he began, concern filling his voice. "I've never known you to be lax on the job before…what happened tonight?"

"What job?" Finch cut in sharply. "The Chancellor's dead."

Dominic's eyes widened in shock at the words, his mind racing. The Chancellor Sutler's disappearance had been disquieting in a way that nothing in all his years of service had ever been before, and Creedy's even more nerve wracking. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place.

"How?" It was a simple question to ask, but an important one.

Finch didn't answer right away, but instead turned on another light and led Dominic into his living room, offering him a seat on the couch. When his employee had sat and seemed ready for some answers, the Chief Inspector settled as well, his face set in a grim line, but showing no signs of remorse.

"Adam Sutler was shot once in the head, and seemingly beaten with a rod." He paused, allowing the implications of his information to sink into Dominic's psyche. "A scarlet Carson was tucked into his lapel…but it was Creedy's gun that killed him, not one of V's injections."

"And Creedy?" Dominic immediately asked already surmising that the Party Leader was dead as well.

"His neck was snapped, like it was a twig. The bruising also suggest strangulation, but no roses for him." Finch replied.

Dominic had also had a strong distaste for the Norsefire fingermen, and their ring-leader in particular. He had been at Parliament that night, despite having a somewhat high seat of authority in the government he so strongly disliked, mainly to spite the Creedy, whom he regarded as one of most disgusting human beings on the face of the earth.

"Perhaps our boy fancied Creedy wasn't man enough to warrant one." He said with a slight snort of amusement in his voice.

Finch was a particularly brilliant man in his field, and didn't take Dominic's words as the joke they were meant to be. "That's a possibility, certainly…" Finch sighed, leaning back to be enveloped by the cushions of his seat. "Or," he added darkly, "he was in too much of a rush for his usual dramatic flair."

Raising a brow, Dominic knew that there was more to his story. "Oh?" he inquired lightly, for conversation's sake.

"An armor plate covered in bullet holes and stained with fresh blood was on the ground. A trail of the same blood was on the walls…whoever it was, and I feel I can be safe in saying that it was in fact V, was bleeding heavily and using the wall as support. I followed the trail until it came out at a platform, his hat was lying on the ground. A few yards away there was a puddle of blood on the ground, and then a few drops that led to the outside."

Instantly, the mysterious patient from Our Lady of Grace came to the forefront of Dominic's mind. "How fresh would you have estimated that blood when you came upon it, Inspector?"

"Extremely fresh.…" Finch said with emphasis, "I was most likely only a half an hour behind his trail."

Finch frowned as a light of understanding appeared in Dominic's eye. "I answered a call tonight, a little after midnight. A Dr. Quinn from Our Lady of Grace had been phoning since ten-thirty this evening about a patient that had come into the ER.…dragged in by a blood-soaked woman, whom apparently refused to leave his side. Over thirty bullet wounds, easily I was told…the hospital staff was nervous about them, figured they were a pair of criminals of course…but the pair managed to disappear before I got around to going."

"Are you telling me that the Hammond girl brought our boy to a run of the mill hospital? Finch asked, his alcohol clouded senses forcing themselves to regain clarity with this new wealth of information.

"You're the one who told me that you no longer believed in coincidences, Inspector," Dominic grinned, "and to confirm it all we need is matching blood samples, which I'm guessing won't be all that hard to obtain."

"Christ…" Finch said, rising out of his chair with new found energy. "If we find out his blood type, we'll be able to pinpoint him down to all living men in England with the same blood type, and from that perhaps see if any of them were ever sent to detention centers…we could be well on our way to unmasking England's favorite terrorist."

"It's a long shot by any stretch of the imagination…but it's more of a lead than a year's worth of investigation has given us." Dominic agreed, rising as well.

As the two detectives headed out Finch's door in hot pursuit of the case they were suddenly much closer to breaking, Dominic frowned for a moment and said, "There's still one thing that isn't making sense. At midnight on the fourth, when Parliament exploded, the patient and his companion were at the hospital. So if those people _were _Evey Hammond and V, then who was it that initiated the detonation?"

Eric Finch stopped in his tracks, glancing up at Dominic who was only halfway down the front step. He paused for a long while before grunting, "Hell if I know…but if we can find V, maybe we can find out."

"Yeah, I suppose so…" Dominic began, but Eric piercingly cut him off.

"You haven't been pilfering my fags for your own pleasure again, have you?" He asked with a small laugh.

Dominic scowled in mock-defeat and tossed the pack of cigarettes at his superior, and climbed into the vehicle parked in the street, temporarily forgetting about the questions Chief Inspector Eric Finch was the least ready to answer.

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**Author's Notes: **_Please, please review and let me know what you think! _


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes;** _Due to a recent wrist injury, chapters will be slower in coming. This was written before my accident, so I can manage to put it up. Sadly, no V or Evey here either, but I promise that once I'm able they'll be coming back with vengeance. _

_As usual, my heartfelt gratitude goes out to my reviewers. :D_

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At close to five o'clock in the morning on November the fifth, Gregory Dascomb's cell phone began to ring shrilly. He groaned into his pillow and outstretched his hand blindly towards the bedside table. It seemed he had only fallen asleep minutes earlier, after one of the most stressful nights he had ever endured. After the parliament building had gone up in the brazen display of flames and fireworks, he had been sure that Chancellor Sutler would have wasted no time in gathering his top lackey's to have an audience for the hissy-fit of the century, but happily it seemed that his presence had so far been unwanted. The interval away from the Chancellor's ravings and the advisory council's groveling had been delightful, but Gregory knew it would come to an end sooner rather than later.

When Dascomb answered his phone with a groggy hello, he hadn't expected to hear Chief Inspector Finch's voice on the other end of the line, insisting that he go to Victoria Station right away. Although baffled and annoyed Dascomb was by no means a stupid man, and as much as he may have disliked Eric Finch, he knew that the detective would not waste his time. He dressed quickly, in one of his many well pressed suits, and headed out the door, a gun carefully concealed beneath the expensive jacket. Parliament had fallen…the world was no longer safe.

Gregory arrived at the station in very good time; he was a punctual being and didn't see the use in any sort of delay. With every sharp click of his heel against the pavement beneath him, Dascomb felt his curiosity grow. In what felt like a lifetime ago, he had been an eager young journalist fresh out of university, but then St. Mary's had come and with it the world changed. Somehow, he had gone from a boy bent on becoming the most important reporter in the British history, to a corporation mogul who contrived all of the news in the country to suit the purposes of the people in power. He wasn't really sure when exactly he had lost all of his morals and dreams to money and fear; cynicism towards everyone and everything had come with the time he spent in the world, but his curiosity remained, the last fragment he had left of his life before Norsefire.

The sight that greeted him when he arrived at Victoria Station was a typical one for a crime scene. Two police cars and one detective's were parked out front, the lights flashing in the darkness of the early morning, but the sirens thankfully muted. Caution tape marked the perimeter and one lone officer kept vigil by the door with a print scanner in hand. After passing through the Norsefire-mandated crime scene security, Gregory made his way down to the platform, where the Chief Inspector was waiting for him.

The greeted each other formally, because they knew no other way to respectfully address one another, and proceeded with their business. Finch's posture was that of a worn man, exhausted and completely rundown. The tiny half smoked cigarette hanging loosely between his lips, the stubble on his face, and the liquor on his breath would have completed the picture if it was not for light that danced within his eyes. It wasn't a merry light, but rather the grim satisfaction or knowing and understanding and it unnerved Dascomb when he met Finch's eyes.

"Before I take you to the crime scene my team is investigating, there are few thing you should know." Finch sighed, removing the cigarette from his lips and tapping off some of the ashes.

Dascomb merely nodded, deciding that words were superfluous.

"There are eleven dead men not too far from here…and it's a rather bloody situation…gun wounds, slashed throats…a massacre occurred late last night." Finch paused. "And amongst the fatalities was the High Chancellor and Party Leader Creedy."

For a short second, Finch's words held no meaning. Instantly, they had been dismissed as nonsense, twenty years of Norsefire regime drilling the idea of their leaders strength into his brain. The idea that Sutler and Creedy were mortal men was one he had never thought before, having always regarded the country's leaders as soulless forces rather than flesh and blood. Norsefire was invincible, and all resistance to it was obsolete…. he had known it twenty years ago, and thought he had known it even at that very second. It was a defeatist attitude, but it had been the right attitude for two decades.

When Gregory Dascomb finally comprehended what Finch was telling him, he felt the earth shatter beneath his feet, and yet he remained standing. "I've got to see it with my own eyes." He pulled his hand-held video recorder out of his jacket and clutched it within his grip.

"Just…be ready." Finch sighed.

After a few minutes of lumbering through blood stained halls and dark tunnels, the pair arrived at their destination. To Finch's credit, everything was being taken care of in the most professional manner that they knew how to conduct. Numerous photographs had been taken of the original situation, and then more, once the bodies had been outlined in chalk. Blood and hair samples were being taken from the victims with diligence; bodies were poked and prodded by gloved fingers.

Gregory briefly wondered why Finch insisted on sticking to the official Norsefire investigation process, but that was the way Chief Inspector liked things, neat, clean, and official. He appreciated order in a way few men could, and that was what had attracted him to the conservative party to begin with. In a world of mayhem, chaos, uncertainty, they had offered him peace, but had not warned him of control. And it was the control that Eric Finch disagreed with, that was all.

There wasn't much to say about the politicians' deaths except that it explained quite a bit. Gregory Dascomb was a bright man, and didn't need the situation to be spelled out to him. He couldn't exactly replay the whole bloody scene in vivid detail, but he had a vague notion of the struggle that had occurred, and considering the rose on Chancellor Sutler's body, it was rather clear who had won. What he was unsure of was why exactly Finch had felt the need to bring him there to see it before one of news researches could catch wind. The Inspector obviously needed something from Dascomb, but what was a mystery that he was eager to solve.

Finch, not being one to hesitate, pulled Gregory off to the side and away from any prying ears, and set up his red-light muffler to confuse the censors and said in a low urgent tone, "Dascomb, I'm not going to butter you up and try to act like we're childhood mates. We've never liked each other, and we probably never will." He paused for a second and the continued with a begrudging sigh, "But I know you enough to realize what a smart man you are, and how much of an opportunist. For some reason, I also respect you enough to believe that with the proper inducement you might be able to do some good with the influence you have."

Gregory Dascomb smiled thinly at the elder man, already envisioning what he might have in mind. "I suppose you want me to spin this in some way. It's nothing I haven't done before."

Finch shook his head, attempting to emphasize his point. "If a new form of government…something_, anything_…isn't implemented…if some form of order isn't restored swiftly, this country is going to be filled with nothing but riots and sheer **chaos**. High Chancellor is dead, the Party Leader is dead…that leaves a bunch of panel nobodies as the only Norsefire left, and I know that none of us really care about the convictions of it…just trying to save our own sorry behinds."

"Inspector, are you trying to convince me to angle this story so that the murderer of England's leaders comes off as a hero? And furthermore, are you attempting to use _morality_ as of means of persuasion?" Dascomb scoffed. "Do you know me at _all _sir?"

"As the chief of law-enforcement in England, it's sad day for me to be condoning the acts of a murderer…but V is a hero in the eyes of the people, whether we want to admit it or not." Finch said, with a touch of sadness, pulling a second slim cigarette from its case and throwing the first onto the ground.

"Do you realize that condoning Codename V now will severely call into question BTN's credibility?" Dascomb shot at him, with a trace of annoyance in his voice. It vexed him to be the constant mouthpiece for England's news, to be at the beck and call of those with positions of authority over him.

Finch lit his cigarette and took a long, smooth drag, fighting back the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, I have some inkling of it," He glowered, "but I have full confidence that you will be able to spin this story to make the BTN come out smelling like roses, just like you always have. All you have to do is report the truth, and act like it's not old news to you…and people will believe that the biggest corporation in the country was as much of a victim as them."

Gregory could see it in his mind's eye…how he'd pin the blame of BTN's lies on the dead chancellor, how they could create a special called Uncovering the Lies or something equally as ridiculous, to expose all the evils of Norsefire to the public. It would be the most watched program in the history of the BTN, he could already see that…but Gregory was the president of multi-million dollar corporation, and knew better than to so easily give into a haggle.

"I'll admit to seeing the possibility, I've managed to pull off greater feats…but what about when the crisis is adverted. Who comes into power then?" It was a foolish question, and he knew it. Finch would have no proper answer for him.

"Who knows?" Finch replied with a cough, "Maybe V will be named king of England and Evey Hammond queen. Maybe we'll have a parliament again…or maybe a president. Maybe there won't be anything. I'm not going to sit here and try to preach pretty to you about the future, Dascomb…but I'm telling you that people won't stand for things to stay the same. They proved it with the fifth, and we have to recognize it and accept it and work with it."

"And what do you suppose happens if I say no." Gregory asked with a lazy smirk.

Finch paused to take another drag and then replied, "There's a number of possibilities, I suppose. But I can't seem to imagine any that don't end with you ruined, dead, or both."

The smirk turned into a genuine smile, albeit a faint one. "It appears you leave me with little alternative, Finch."

With Dascomb's promise of compliance, a triumph began to glow in the depths of Finch's eyes. The news-mogul turned with a sharp click, eager to be away from the stench of blood, cigarettes, and liquor. Allowing himself one last glance at the gory scene before it was cleaned up entirely, a lazy smirk found it's way to his lips. "England prevails." Gregory murmured, heading off into the night.

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**Author's Notes:** Please review. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Notes: **_Hello everyone! Luckily, the wrist injury turned out to only be a sprain :D! As soon as I had permission to remove my splint, I got right down to writing, aren't you happy? So nice of you guys to wish me well._

_Watching VFV with my mom the other night also helped to get my creative juices flowing. _

_Here's the next chapter, which is chock-full o' E/V interaction for your reading pleasure! _

_Which, by the way...is my longest chapter yet!_

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For most people in England, November fifth passed in a whirlwind of tears and laughter…the streets were flooded over with revelers, exulting their joy and their pride over a foe whom had yet to show its face on _their _day. It was beautiful in a way that no one had ever experienced before, despite the confusion and the lootings and outbreaks of violence that were occurring nation-wide. For the first time, a whole country was able to sample a taste of pure unadulterated freedom even if only for that one day; freedom from their government, from the rigors of society, and from themselves.

Because of one man and his dream, the world had gone from a place of severity, order, and discipline, to a miraculously picturesque state of anarchy. Everywhere one looked, people basked in their self-made liberation. Armed fingermen (despite having a missing leader) patrolled the streets, their metal rods and guns prepared to subdue any Norsefire dissenter, but the people had finally realized that their oppressors were the underdog, that they themselves had the true power. Although many people died horrifically under the fingermen's rage, the people weren't frightened anymore. Thanks to V, Norsefire could not longer coerce their compliance, nor would any new regime be able to gain the same kind of control.

Wherever one looked, laws were being broken. Effortlessly a population broke all the laws that had been created to "protect" it. Front stoops and rooftops were littered with hoards of drug users, freely indulging in their habits for all the world to see. Children screeching with laughter ran in-between alleys and ducked in and out of houses not their own, turning all of London into their playground. Out on the sidewalks wine cellars were emptied, the owners sharing their vintage such and such with anyone passing by in a Guy Fawkes mask At every pub, beer taps ran freely and bottles of liquor were emptied, that bartenders not bothering to think about the losses in profit. These people shouted, sang, laughed, and cried; but for the most part they openly spoke against their government, condemning Norsefire and all those affiliated with it straight to the devil; they feared Creedy's black-bag no longer. He would have to bag the entire country, and the odds of him being able to accomplish that seemed very slim.

For Evey Hammond and V however, the day was anything but care free. In her second strange feat of strength in under twenty-four hours, Evey had managed to drag V out of the hospital in the wee hours of the morning. The hospital had been on an _extremely_ skeletal staff to begin with, and as the hours had crept on it grew smaller still as several nurses left either because their shift had ended or they wished to celebrate with the rest of the country, and no one had ever returned to fill their places. The rest for the most part, had fallen asleep.

Evey knew that removing V from the hospital was an extremely risky venture at best, but the guilt she felt for bringing him there in the first place had overwhelmed her all the while they had stayed. She wished she hadn't removed his mask. The thought had continuously plagued her while at Our Lady of Grace, and hadn't lessened with a change of scenery.

_"__There is a face beneath this mask, but it's not me. I'm no more that face than I am the muscles beneath it, or the bones beneath them."_

Had it been only a day since he had said those words, instead of a lifetime?

So much had happened since than that it seemed impossible to Evey that it was only a matter of hours. She had understood with those words, after so many months of wondering, wishing, and guessing, the whole reason why V wouldn't show her his face. She had known it was burned, had surmised that it was most likely a terrible thing to see, but she had been willing, and almost hoping to see it. But when V said those words, she had finally understood that he did not see the face behind the mask as his own…that he could not recognize his features as _his_.

V had wanted Evey to see him for who he was, not the image he projected to the world. Evey had acknowledged that and respected it, and robbed it from him all in one night. She had been so damn scared…worried about the suspicions his costume might rise, as if a bald young woman dragging a bullet-filled body would be lest suspicious without it. Evey knew now how idiotic she'd been, _everyone _had been dressed in similar attire that night, but panic had guided her actions. She had to save him, and she did it the only way she could think of.

Evey frowned, glancing at the well bandaged face of the man she had come to respect…admire…love. For the time being, V slept peacefully on the sofa, the first place she had managed to drag him to. For hours he had been slipping in and out of sleep, and Evey tended to his needs the best she could.

Evey was not accustomed to playing the nurse, nor was V a very adept or grateful patient while conscious. Both caretaker and invalid had lived on their own for significant lengths of time, and their style of living had created an independent streak a mile wide in each. She was too determined and sure of herself, and V far too stubborn and self-reliant for them to have any sort of harmonious relationship in this particular situation, and by mid-afternoon on November the fifth, they were both thoroughly annoyed with one another. They hadn't had a true conversation since V first came around several hours earlier, and when he was conscious, he spouted out a bunch of slurred nonsense or released a series of pain filled moans.

At the hospital, V had been put under extraordinarily high doses of anesthetics and painkillers. Initially, he had been given the standard amounts of drugs for a man of his height and weight, but although already unconscious from blood loss, the drugs had no affect on him. It had perplexed the emergency staff at Our Lady of Grace greatly, but when Evey was informed, she hadn't been all that surprised. Although she had only the smallest inkling of the particulars of what had happened to V when he had been held at Larkhill Detention Center, she surmised with sadness that his experiences there must have caused him to develop very high tolerances towards most mind-altering substances.

The doctor and the anesthesiologist had conferred at the hospital, and their only solution to the dilemma was to simply up V's doses, but they feared with the great amount of blood he had lost that a vast quantity of drugs could easily prove to be fatal. More than ten hours later, the narcotics still raced though his veins and held a firm grip on his mind.

Trying to be gentle, caring and calm was problematic for Evey, who had never experienced so much fear and stress in her twenty-six years of life, and because of it her sanity was skating on extremely thin ice. She reminded herself constantly that V was gaining lucidity much faster than almost anyone possibly could, and to count her small blessings, but it was difficult to keep her temper in check.

Evey was desperately tired; tired of feeling and thinking, tired of worry, tired of trying to take care him, tired of his poor attitude, achingly lamenting the days long past in which he had so reverently taken care of her instead. She had never been so exhausted before, not even during her imprisonment, but she forced herself to stay awake in case he needed her.

She had left him once before, after he had so diligently taken care of her every whim, and now that she had him back she felt the overwhelming desire to do the same for him that he had done for so many months. She poured her whole heart into caring for V during those hours, changing the dressing on his injuries, holding him while he released the contents of his stomach, spoon feeding him cool water when he was to weak to make his lips take a sip…but she had been pushing herself so gruelingly that she was beginning to fall asleep on her feet. Subconsciously she was convincing herself that she could repay him for all that he done in one night's worth of heedful care.

The more tired Evey became, the slower time seemed to move. It inched along at a snail's pace, until five minutes felt like fifty. Every limb grew heavier and heavier as the pull of gravity began to the win the battle against the strength of her muscles. She stood for a long time, knowing that if she was to sit she would be asleep in an instant, and when her legs finally gave out because she had drained them of all their strength, she knelt, trying to keep her vigil by V's side as long as she could. Looking back on that day, Evey would view her own actions with a great deal of annoyance and skepticism, but sleep deprivation, fear, and love for him had ruled out any logical thought.

It was strange to see him sleep in front of her, the most unguarded he had ever been in the year she'd known him. He had always presented an immaculate front to her, from his supple black leather boots to the silky raven wig, and now he lay close to naked, dressed in a white hospital gown decorated with Norsefire emblems, his already gnarled skin was ridden with stitches and bullet wounds. Although she had tried to keep him as covered as she could with blankets to preserve some of his dignity, Evey doubted that V would ever fully overcome his embarrassment and anger that she had seen him in such a state.

Glancing at the sleeping liberator from her bedside vigil, Evey felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes and frowned, almost in annoyance.

"Haven't I done enough crying today?" she muttered in frustration, hastily wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands. "Enough for a lifetime?"

There was silence in the Shadow Galley for a brief moment, and then Evey heard a barely audible, "One weeps not, save when one is afraid…" (i)

She smiled, simply because she couldn't help it. The sound of his voice, although a feeble mockery of his usual speech, was the most reassuring sound she could of heard in that moment. "I suppose I am afraid." She said tiredly, loving eyes meeting his own. "Afraid for you, for all sorts of different reasons." She paused and then laughed a little. "And you did so much to rid me of my fears."

"I had believed that my efforts were not in vain…" V murmured, his voice gaining more strength as he exercised it. "but I could not summon the strength to lock you up again, the first time was very nearly my undoing…" His tone took on a hint of despair, and filled with compassion, Evey grabbed his hand and kissed it reverently.

There was a long silence then as both allowed themselves to think of memories better left repressed. Evey held back the bile that threatened to rise up her throat as she remembered the pain, the cold, the screams, the desperation…She had long since forgiven him for that…She had even gone as far as to thank V, because no matter how much it had hurt he had given her the most precious gift of her life…but that didn't mean that there were no nightmares, no scars.

"You taught me a lesson that I will never forget…you made me realize my beliefs were more important to me than my life." She let out a heavy sigh and continued, "But I still had more to learn about myself V, that I couldn't find in that moment, things buried even deeper." She squeezed his hand, trying to will him to understand.

V's breath hitched in his throat, fearing and yet eager to hear all that Evey would say. He relished her every word as if it came from the mouth of a great philosopher, rather than a twenty-six year old woman trying to find herself

"What was it, Evey?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

She held his hand in hers, fingers lightly caressing the weathered flesh in her grasp. Although she did not _cry_, tears slid down her cheeks in rapid succession, but she did not bother to wipe them away. "When you live with someone, you don't appreciate them the way you should have…the certainty of seeing them every day takes a lot out of your enthusiasm for companionship…until you live alone again. When I first realized how lonely I was without you, I thought it was nothing more than that…that I was so used to seeing you that my life seemed incomplete with you there. I thought it was something I'd get over with time…" She trailed off, seemingly lost in her thoughts.

V did his best to bring Evey back to earth, not allowing himself to hope for anything beyond her words. "Solitude is a life-style of which very few take pleasure in. It is as natural for humans to crave companionship as it is for the sun to shine or the rain to fall. As strange as it must have been to miss," a hesitant pause, "me…Life can often become routine, and people appreciate a pattern. When their routine is destroyed…"

"Yes." Evey replied, emotion welling up in her chest and heaving out in heavy breaths, "no one does well with change…and I was so angry with you at first, had so much hatred, confusion and frustration inside of me, that that's all I convinced myself it was. But I was deceiving myself, and not very well."

She stopped, and V felt his pulse racing, an addled mind berating himself for having the audacity to _hope._ and then she was speaking once more. "The truth is that I didn't miss the regularity of you…I missed _you _V. Everything I know about you, and all the things I don't…every time I heard a footstep on the pavement I saw you walking towards me…every time a door opened, you were standing in the frame…perhaps it was because I was so young, but I never missed my brother or my parents half so much as I ever missed you."

"_I missed this song."_

Evey's words danced around in V's head, elating him in a way that he had no recollection of feeling before. When she had returned to the Shadow Galley on the fourth…she had never claimed to have missed _him. _She had the missed the music, _this song_…but of her feelings towards the man she had given no inclination. And now here she was, holding his hand…claiming that she had never missed anyone so much in her entire life as she had missed _him_.

Was there any felicity in the world superior to this? V did not believe there could be, until she spoke again.

"I realized V," Evey continued, her voice suddenly a low whisper as rich as velvet, "I realized that the reason why I missed you so, was simple…I fell in love with you."

Beneath the bandages, blue eyes widened, and a mouth gaped. It was a hallucination from the drugs, a trick of his mind trying to give him all that he desired, only to snatch it away when lucidity came. "Evey, you…" He began, at a loss for words and unsure of what he had heard.

She grinned at him, exhaustion and tears clear in her face. "Don't V." she said, shaking her head ruefully, "Don't try to use logic, or quotes, or anything else to try and convince me that I'm kidding myself. Don't spoil this for me…for you."

"You are your own person, Evey. No one can dictate whom you give your heart to but yourself," ." V finally managed to say, "Although I think your placement of it is rather ill-advised…I can deny you nothing Evey, not if you ask it of me."

"Let me ask it of you." She said, clutching his hand. "You told me last night that what I said about you was right…that there was no tree waiting for you. I disagreed with you then, and I'll disagree with you now. Let me be your tree, V."

With those words, twenty years of apathy, twenty years of cold and calculated maneuvering, almost completely vanished. How had she known to say those words? Why had his heart been touched so profoundly, so irrevocably, when it had been so improbable, almost impossible for him to ever feel for anyone? It took all of V's self-restraint and composure to keep from breaking down entirely. Evey Hammond had so easily broken all of his carefully constructed barriers against human feeling…

His voice shaking, quavering with an emotional intensity he had never known before, V managed to make a coherent response after several moments of calming himself. "Knowing you has been a more meaningful experience than I had ever thought to achieve," V said, "Loving you has been more than I could ever dare to hope for…" He sat up slightly, the intensity and the depth of his feelings wholly evident in his body language. "But to be loved by you, Evey?…it is more, so much more, than I could have ever dared to _dream_ of. I can't believe it's possible…In all of my wildest fantasies, my most outlandish, preposterous of wishes…your love was something I could not imagine. And to have it…to hear those words come from your lips…"

He trailed off, unable to find the words, and maybe unwilling to.

"I know," Evey soothed, her tones warm, dulcet. "I understand…you and I are above speaking, when words clearly aren't enough."

And she threw her arms around his torso, kneeling beside his resting place, her head lying on his chest, listening to his slow, steady heart beat. She closed her eyes as felt his tired arms wrap around her, his fingers lightly stroking her back, the weight of him firm and reassuring. For a few hours, the pair could forget the outside world, forget the blood they had seen and horrors that were occurring. They could forget the past, the nightmares that wouldn't end for either, the countless ways in which they had hurt the other. For a few short hours as the drifted off to sleep they were nothing but a man and woman…a hero and a heroine…V and his Evey.

England could wait.

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**Author's Notes:** _Hope you all enjoyed. It got a **wee** bit mushier than I was planning to do. / _

_Perhaps that's a good thing?_

_Anyway, I don't mean to sound really whiny or anything, but if all of you guys are still out there and reading and enjoying (hopefully!) don't be shy! Whether good or bad, I love hearing what you have to say, and what your interpretations are. I really appreciate the reviews I have been receiving, **(so sweet of you guys to wish me well on the whole wrist thing!)** but the influx has really slowed since the enormous response of the first chapter, and I'm wondering what happened to you guys. Still out there? o.0_


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Notes: Oh wow! The review response to chapter sixth was awesome! 10 reviews for one chapter! o.0 You guys are simply incredible and all your positive words have been a great encouragement and inspiration for me to continue with this!

**Author's Notes: (6/17/07)** _This chapter, has had three pages added to the end. Originally, I was going to make these pages Chapter Eight, however, they are a direct continuation from the point at which we left off, and I couldn't make the transition at the end of the three pages to the next thing I wanted to do without creating a very short chapter eight. Therefore, you are receiving an update...of sorts, and the actual chapter eight is coming **very** soon!_

_I'm keeping my fingers crossed for reviews on this chapter, (again) since there is a lot of new content to be read. :D Hope you enjoy, and I'm sorry about the delay I had in getting this out._

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Instead of the usual two anchors on the BTN daily news, a well-groomed Gregory Dascomb sat at the desk, staring right into the screen, brown eyes solemn. _"What is truth?" _he was saying,_ "Is it fact or belief? Or are the facts and the ideologies of life two things interwoven together, completely inseparable? It was the BTN's job to report the news, and for the past two decades, we have done our best to do so…but the only news we can report is the news we receive, with of course, permission from the censorship advisory committee."_

Resting in the comforts of his luxurious home a lone man sat in a darkened living room, one brow arched at the implications of these words. V didn't have much faith in Britain's solitary television network, and even less in the man who invaded his den at that very moment.

On the screen Dascomb paused for a moment, his face set in a grim and sincere look. _"And for 20 years our government concealed anything from us that could excite the imagination of the people, they oppressed any means in which the BTN could help to propel anti-Norsefire sentiment."_ His voice was full of expression; he did not speak with a reporter's well cultivated tone, but rather reflected the feelings of all who were watching with his inflections.

It was difficult for him not to roll his eyes at that. The BTN had long been the leading supporter of the conservative party's regime in the country, eagerly spouting out all of their lies and propaganda to the unassuming public. He was not sure if this support was willingly bestowed or coerced by Norsefire officials, but he was well aware of the affiliations of the man before his eyes.

In his study a few feet across the room, there was a light green filing cabinet jam-packed with manila folders and minimally classified. There were four unmarked drawers, tacitly categorized in descending order as _spare_, _manipulate_, _kill/manipulate_, and _kill_. Each folder within these drawers had a tab that was labeled in pencil with a name, first then last, using these names they were then organized alphabetically.

Dascomb, Gregory was a file that was seemingly almost constantly being switched from one drawer to another. He had never met the man in person, but the name and face were ones that he knew all too well. He ran over the Dascomb's stats in his head, ticking off every minuet detail he could recall as he watched the man carry on about the evils of the government that codename V had liberated the country from.

Age: 37

_"We can not allow chaos to best us! As a country we can not stand for it! I refuse to condone it, and I urge you to scorn the madness that is sweeping through the country. Only with unnerving serenity of November the Fifth can we endure and overcome…"_

Birth date: June 19th, 1988

_"Ever since the Conservative Party came into power in 2009, we have had nothing but lies and corruption to believe in, to follow…"_

Weight: Approximately 185 lbs

_"One man in a mask refused to be coerced; one man led a revolution against a powerful tyrant…"_

Height: Approximately 6 ft.

_"Where is High Chancellor Sutler, and Party Leader Creedy? It's a question on everyone's mind…"_

Hair: Brown/Grey

_"It is cowardice, I believe, that keeps them at bay…in all their time in power there has never been such an uprising…"_

Eyes: Brown

_"Nothing this monumental has occurred since the devastating Riot in __Leeds__, after Chancellor Sutler had been elected…"_

Party Affiliations: Labor 2003-2008

Conservative 2008/9-current

Abruptly, V was interrupted from his reverie.

"You should be resting." Evey said her voice cutting through the air and filling the entire room, over powering the ranting man on the television.

V turned his head in acknowledgement, glancing at the slightly cross woman standing in the doorway to the kitchen, light flooding in from behind her. He drank her in with his eyes, and couldn't help but notice how well righteous indignation suited her; cheeks flushed lightly and her posture proving she was ready to do battle.

"Nonsense," he replied, keeping the tone light, "I've slept off almost an entire day, and though dreaming may be one's pleasantest escape from the harshness of reality, I feel that I have been vacationing from my duties long enough."

The faintest hint of a smile spread across Evey's lips. "I made some tomato soup…" she said hesitantly, changing the subject, "I would have made chicken, but I could only find that terrible government issued fake chicken stock junk…and you didn't have any vegetables in the fridge…"

"Ah," V responded repentantly, "My apologies mademoiselle. The last occasion I took to acquire some groceries I had deemed it a foolish notion to procure any perishable goods."

"Not even frozen or canned?" Evey asked, crossing the threshold and walking towards him, "Why would you think _vegetables _are a foolish notion?"

V made no response, but realization suddenly dawned on her without any of his assistance. Her step faltered, and her bemused smile shaped itself into a surprised frown. "Oh…" she said simply, "Oh I see…"

"Evey…" V began pleadingly, immediately sensing her shift of mood, "Evey, you must understand…"

"Oh no," she interrupted, the octave of her voice rising slightly, "oh no, I understand perfectly. How about I pour you a bowl of that soup? I don't know if you're stomach will be able to handle it but..."

"I assure you, it will be fine." He turned back to the program, suddenly resigned. He could recognize defeat when he saw it, and he knew that Evey would refuse to take the implications of his words lightly.

His attention averted back to the television set as Evey fussed around in the kitchen some more, he was surprised to find that Dascomb was now interviewing Chief Inspector Finch, a man whom V actually had some small modicum of respect for.

_"Good evening Inspector Finch, and thank you for agreeing to this interview. I trust your department must be very busy right now."_

Finch was dressed and groomed immaculately, but his eyes betrayed all of his exhaustion. _"Yes," _he responded, almost sadly. _"The telephone's been ringing all day with reports of lootings, robberies, murder, and all other kinds of things. It seems since parliament fell that the world has gone a bit mad."_

V smiled in satisfaction underneath the spoiled mask that gingerly lay on his bandaged face. It seemed that his meticulous planning was paying off to some degree, and at any rate it was at least a hopeful beginning for a new England.

_"Without the stability that Norsefire provided, it seems that anarchy is ruling our nation."_ Dascomb added his normally shifty gaze steadfast. Turning to Finch he lightened his tone somewhat and continued, _"However, we can not blame people for being over indulgent in enjoying their sense of new found freedom, can we Chief Inspector?"_

Finch smiled at that, although his eyes held none of the merriment that his lips professed. He spoke on about how any person so long repressed from enjoying the simple pleasures of being alive were bound to go a little crazy in their hedonism, and as he observed the man, V perked up significantly. Mr. Finch seemed to have aged remarkably for one night, and coldly V attempted to calculate just what weighed so heavily on his mind.

Evey walked into the living room carrying a tray with her soup and some crackers just as Dascomb began to speak once more. As she listened to his words, any anger or disappoint she felt towards the masked man were momentarily forgotten.

_"I understand that tomorrow crews will begin to clear up some of the Parliament wreckage, is that correct sir?" _he asked.

_"Yes."_ Finch answered, and then directing his speech towards the audience said, _"As you all must know, Parliament was one of the few places left in England still containing original art work that has yet to be banned, most likely do to the fact that there hasn't been any public access to the building in eleven years. We suspect that much of this art and other artifacts were completely obliterated during the explosion, however anything found while clearing the area will be sold at auction, as well as various parts of the building itself."_

Evey's eyes widened as she approached the sofa where V sat propped up with pillows, her ears picking up the Chief Inspector's news with surprise. "Here," she said idly, not taking her eyes off the telly as she placed the tray in his lap.

"Thank you." V answered automatically, but said nothing else, as he was just as engrossed by the idea as she was.

Finch continued to talk. _"It is of course necessary to clear up the debris and prevent any fire continuance immediately. After meeting with General Whit, head of Fire Control and Prevention, we both realized the need to act swiftly. There has already been a great power shortage in the blocks surrounding the Parliament building, and as we speak emergency service workers are working rapidly to restore the area, aided by police escorts."_

_"And what of the funds gained from the Parliament auction?"_ questioned Dascomb, _"What does the police force plan to do with the money they acquire?"_

_"Right now,"_ Finch began noncommittally, _"there are several suggestions as to what to do with the profit earned. The most popular idea right now is to donate the money to Codename V, but since we can not determine his actual identity, another proposition has been put forth to instead give the funds to his supposed accomplice, Evey Hammond."_

V immediately turned towards Evey, who had sat down on the sofa in a daze when she heard the words. He lifted the remote control, and looking at her said quietly, "I believe that is enough television for one afternoon's respite."

There was a long, tense silence before Evey finally spoke, and when she did it was barely above a whisper. "Why me?" she murmured, almost unable to feel.

"Because you, my dear." V replied, taking his hand and turning her chin gently to face him, "you have become a symbol to the people, like Parliament, and like me. Finch and Dascomb are much smarter men than I had believed them to be, if they understand that the people wish to honor that."

"It's all so soon." She said, sinking back into the comfort's of the couch cushions.

"I confess that in all my summations on what could happen after the fifth, I never imagined that Chief Inspector Finch would act with such alacrity. Dascomb's readiness in dealing with the situation is infinitely less shocking, although the manner in which he has conducted it is perplexing." V replied, attempting to give her some small comfort.

She sighed, looking at him with a small wistful smile. "You know V," Evey began, her tone vying to be light and playful, "this is _not_ what I signed up for when I maced that detective at the BTN."

"What was it then that you were willing to comply with, my dear?" V asked, matching her mood.

"I was hoping to spend several months as a damsel in distress with a mysterious masked avenger as my only companion, of course." She grinned, stifling a yawn.

"I'm afraid that life often times serves you a much larger platter than you are quite ready to stomach, but I feel certain in that you will manage to do so with equanimity." V responded.

For a brief interlude they sat, and somehow Evey's hand slowly found his and intertwined their fingers together. V's breath caught short in his chest as he felt the warmth of her small hand nestled in his, and he slowly surmised that though her moments of compulsory affection would never cease to startle him, there was no just reason why he should view such a surprise as unwelcome.

Eventually V disentangled himself from her and suggested that she should perhaps get some rest in her own bed, rather than have another catnap on the crowded sofa. Agreeing with him she stood up to leave, all the thoughts whirling through her head from the afternoon having been slightly subdued from his calming presence.

Before she entered her bedroom, V called out to her and said, "You should go tomorrow, to help clean the debris of Parliament." When she turned her head and stared at him and shock he said, "After all, Evey...it was you who ultimately pulled the lever."

Her heart almost stopping, Evey's voice rose in protest, "V…" she began, but he swiftly cut her off.

"I know that you may be hesitant in leaving the comforts of the Shadow Galley, so soon, however, I told you that this no longer my world to shape. But different people's' yours Evey."

Never before in her life has Evey been so tempted to lie and tell V everything he believed about her was correct. However, she knew that any falsehood she made would be completely transparent, and she doubted she would be able to endure all the guilt she would feel at not confessing the whole truth to him.

"Before you go on V," Evey said quietly, hovering by the entrance to her bedroom. "You should know something." She paused and swallowed, trying to compose her thoughts. "Last night, I didn't pull the lever. I abandoned the train at the platform. Instead…instead I chose to try and save you."

His silence was deafening.

Braced by the frame of her bedroom doorway, Evey stood proud and determined, waiting for V to speak. Millions of thoughts and feelings rushed through her head as she anticipated V's verdict, but she would not regret the decisions she made. Oh, she had felt guilty…she couldn't think of time she had done anything to feel guiltier, but when he had given her that responsibility, he had given her a _choice_, and she had chosen to save him. Even as his silence dragged out to what felt like an eternity slipping by, she could still hear his words from the previous evening, as they stood together on the platform.

_ "…If you **want** it to be."_

She had wanted to pull that lever, that she could not deny…but she had wanted to save him more than anything else. He had left it up to her, and she had chosen. Let him dare try and criticize her for it; she was more than ready to defend her actions.

"I am afraid that I have not quite discerned your meaning." V said silkily, the hushed lilt of his voice conveying the pent up rage he held behind a calm exterior. "Are you implying that you chose to arrange a hospital stay for me rather than carry on with the task I had entrusted you with?"

"Yeah." Evey snapped, her head cocking in challenge at the anger in his tenor instead of cowering in fear. "That's exactly what I'm _implying_ V."

The sharp tilt of the mask and the clenched fists were enough indication to show Evey just how furious her new information had made him; but, seeing his indignation only caused her ire to rise. Righteous passion and fury fueled her steps and quickly she had crossed over the space that divided and loomed over her adversary, an angry tirade spilling out from between her lips.

"You've no right to judge me, V! I'm a grown woman, perfectly capable of forming my own judgments and making my own decisions! You were hurt…" she paused for a short moment, floundering slightly for words and continued, "You were wounded…probably _fatally_ wounded, and I had to make a quick decision."

V sat erect on the sofa, incapable of any more menacing pose as full of stitches and dull with the last lingering holds of drugs as he was. Had he not been wearing his gloves, Evey could have seen how his knuckles turned even whiter than the scars that marked his hands as he balled them into tight fists.

When he responded, V's tone was one of calculating serenity, and his voice came out as an icy hiss. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."(i) He subtly snarled. "Your concern in my well-being it would seem, is nothing more than a facade to mask your fear of change, Evey."

With those words Evey's face went ashen, and she took a step backward, recoiling from him as if he had dealt her a heavy blow. Momentarily shaken, having not expected that particular argument, V continued on; but, as Evey regained her footing she interrupted him with an angry bark.

"Don't you dare try and accuse anything I do of being a facade, V!" She seethed, fury racing through her veins. "You've no right to say that my concern for you is nothing but a mask, _a mask_! Yeah, I _was _afraid that night, afraid to watch you die, no...Afraid to _let_ you die. You honestly try to tell me that I don't care for you, because I tried to save you? You're going to treat my love for you like it's a joke; or worse, nothing more than a lie to justify my fears?"

"What do you want from me, Evey?" V demanded, his collected veneer breaking apart with the words, resolve shattering like thin glass and smashing into a million fragile pieces, "Would you like me to reassure you in my happiness that you value my humble life higher than the call of freedom? My life_ is_ freedom, Evey!"

It was the closest thing to a sob she had ever heard from him, and Evey couldn't stand the weight of it.

"No it's not!" Evey cried, collapsing down to her knees on the cold, stone floor of the Shadow Galley, and reaching out towards him. "You're a man V, a human being! You came from somewhere...a mother who gave birth to you. You aren't just some manifestation of revolution. You're so much more than idea, and you refuse to believe it! You can't touch an idea, kiss it, or hold it... ideas don't bleed and feel pain, they don't love, or laugh..."(ii) She paused, holding back a heavy sob that threatened to fall and continued, "V you have a name, you have some sort of family, dead or alive, you have a past...so don't try to accuse my feelings for you of being _facade_, don't try and tell me that _I _use a mask, even a metaphorical one, when a mask is all that you'll allow yourself to be!"

There was a long tense silence between them, as neither dared to breathe, and Evey did not bother to wipe away the scalding tears that spilled out from between dark lashes and raced down her cheeks in rapid succession. She was kneeling there next to him, naked and unafraid of judgment, perfectly ready to be condemned. It wasn't the first time she had so wholly revealed herself to him, and malice began to grow in the pit of her stomach, gaining memento as she thought of the first time he had been seen her without pretenses.

"_I can't feel **anything** anymore!"_

As Evey knelt there beside him, old feelings of hate toward him rose up from the depths of her subconscious, pleading wildly to be let free. With so much grief, frustration and fury all happening so swiftly, her mind had become a tumultuous inundation of memories and feelings; bitterly she couldn't help but think just how wrong she'd been when she'd said she no longer felt. She felt more now, more vivid, sharper, brighter, keener, than she had ever felt in her entire life, and she despised it.

Shaking, Evey stood, and walked back to her bedroom, closing the door behind her and leaning against as soon as she knew she was out of V's sight. Feeling physically tired and emotionally drained she threw herself onto her bed, swiftly falling asleep. On the other side of thick, stone walls, V let hot tears fall until he too, was spent.

He felt that he turned more and more into a man with each second passed in her presence, the good _and_ the bad, and he wasn't sure whether or not he should laud it or fear it.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **_I'm sincerely hoping that all you have that have previously read this chapter, and (hopefully!) left a review, will be kind enough to do so again. Don't worry, the school year is about to end, and my updating should pick up speed once more. I've been awfully busy with finals and all that nonsense._

**(i)** "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." (Hamlet, III, ii, 239)

**(ii)** "You can't touch an idea, kiss it, or hold it... ideas don't bleed and feel pain, they don't love, or laugh..." (Paraphrased from Evey Hammond's introduction in the beginning of the 2005 V for Vendetta film.)

"I've witnessed first hand the power of ideas, I've seen people kill in the name of them, and die defending them... but you cannot kiss an idea, cannot touch it, or hold it... ideas do not bleed, they do not feel pain, they do not love..."

** Also: **

_ You may have noticed that in this chapter I mentioned height and weight in pounds and feet. I wasn't sure what the British measurement system would be, and so I did a bit of research online to see how I should mark it. The two websites below (take out the spaces!) were my sources, so correct me if that is wrong, please._

http://www. unc. edu/ rowlett/ units/

http://www. opsi. gov. uk/si/si 1995/Uksi 19951804 en 2.htm


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Notes**: _Well, this took forever to write, and I didn't actually intend to do this from Finch's point of view, but there you have it. I suppose that's inspiration for you! Well thank you's again go out to chapter seven's reviewers, and the one reviewer for the revised chapter seven. Once again, if you haven't read the second version of chapter seven, do so before reading this._

_You all may be surprised to hear this, but this story will be concluded in a few chapters._

_I know, I know...but I never intended to make this into an epic novel, but rather, I wanted to make V feasibly live, have V and Evey work out their problems, and try to create a happy post-fifth world. I have ideas for a sequel to this, but I'm not sure if I'll be doing it yet or not. Either way, this story will have some kind of epilogue/conclusive ending. I won't leave you guys hanging. XD_

* * *

_Everyone_ is going to die.

It was something Eric Finch knew, understood, and hell...even embraced.

To him, death was an old friend, someone whom had held him in tender embrace seemingly hundreds of times throughout the course of his life; death was this unconquerable presence that so many people he'd loved...and millions more he'd never even known...had succumbed to.

Some had died tragically...an unfair and untimely accident lead to their ultimate demise. A drunk driver may strike as his victim walks down the street; a terrorist could detonate a bomb in a building where hundreds of innocents work. He'd seen it all, every last stupid, human blunder...every dumb miscalculation that no one could have imagined. Who knew that St. Mary's would be the worst possible choice of schools for England's children?

Eric couldn't help but reflect on how ridiculous life was at times. How perfectly fragile every person was, and how seemingly unaware of that the general populous seemed to be. For all they knew, a crazed person could decide one day to shoot down everyone that he comes across, and there's a small possibility that he, that anyone really, would be that unfortunate person that crosses his path before he is apprehended by the authorities, or takes his own life. It's always a long shot, but it's still a chance.

Surveying the rubble of Parliament, whose embers glowed even brighter in the early morning light, Finch ran a hand through coarse, thick hair, which had been swiftly graying throughout the past year. He couldn't believe that so many years..._almost two decades..._had been overthrown by this. All that Parliament's destruction was, was a demolition...it was a movement started by one man. Parliament was nothing more than symbol, and it bothered Eric how much stock had been put into that symbol...he couldn't understand it, he wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to understand it.

Years of armor, cynically assembled to defend his heart from the horror that was the world, was being mercilessly ripped apart as he gave orders to his men and the volunteers that were trying to salvage what was left of the historic sight. _Hose this area down, before fire began again_—_don't toss that, it's not rubbish, hand it over to Team B for cleaning and categorization_. Was there nothing so special about Sutler, Creedy, and Norsefire? Was power as easy to gain as simply being a competent instructor?

Until Codename V had appeared out of the woodwork, Eric had been such a staunch supporter of Norsefire's tight reign. He'd lived through the chaos that'd been England before the conservative rise to power, he'd lost a brother to those riots...he'd always hated how Creedy and his fingermen would dispense of witnesses and criminals rather than (for the sake of national security) rather than allowing him to do his job as Chief Inspector, but he'd had such immense respect for their order before V.

It was now November 7th and there was still no word from the masked hero. V hadn't been lax in contacting him before, albeit under a false name, and Finch was worried. The Victoria Station crime scene hadn't been pretty, and it had left little to the imagination of the beating V must have taken...so many bullet shells...close to fifty. He couldn't help but wonder how many had made contact with skin. Was V dead? It was a question that wasn't really answerable at this point.

The bullet ridden man and the young woman that had checked into Our Lady of Grace Hospital gave Finch solid reason to believe that V had at least made it out of the underground alive. He was eager to conduct a more thorough investigation, but how could he, when there was a country on the brink of chaos and no one to run it beside his very addled police force? The silence was unnerving, to him and to many others. Where was the gloating, or the instructions...or congratulations...or anything? Why was V being so silent?

When Eric really thought about it, he could admit to himself that he was absolutely terrified of the prospect of V being dead. The man was a freedom fighter, an anarchist even, and although he knew that the people would not be willing to accept one person's rule so soon after overthrowing a totalitarian government, weren't they going to be at least given a blueprint of how to proceed? Did V's plans really just end with Norsefire's disbandment?

As the day proceeded, and BTN's cameras filmed the wreckage clearing with Dascomb nearby, making commentary, the Chief Inspector's thoughts constantly flittered back to the supposed terrorist, his many unanswered questions haunting the back of his mind. A mental image kept springing up of the terrorist, laying out inside the train, looking quite worse for the wear, his body reverently decorated with the scarlet carsons he was so fond of, obviously decorated for a funeral.

Finch couldn't help but think that if V was dead, it would be poetic justice in some kind of way, the man who'd lived life as a test subject and terrorist to die as a hero. So few people in history truly died heroically, fewer now still in the dark times they lived in than the past. The number of people with any heroism in them had dropped so dramatically at the end of Reformation, that it was almost disgusting, the horror of Creedy's black bag and chaos of the world rid so many people of their guts, and killed off anyone who wasn't afraid to use them. A real hero was someone Finch had a strong, almost unhealthy respect for...it was the person he'd always wished he was, and the person he'd tried to be the night of the fifth.

The idea of a greater good, of a _cause_ was as novel a concept to the jaded inspector as small luxuries like real butter were to the masses. He'd seen so many people die in the early years...his mother, his brother...the woman he loved...he didn't have the heart left to think that the High Chancellor could be anything less than completely infallible. But V had obviously selected him this past year...he'd been trying to share his theories about Norsefire with _him_.

"_Rookwood. Why didn't you come forward earlier? What were you waiting for?"_

"_For you, Inspector. I needed __**you**__."_

God, is that why he pulled the lever? Was it because someone, albeit the terrorist he was supposed to be hunting, had some kind of faith in him, after so long?

As Finch helped to the salvage what he could of the damage he had caused...tried to stop the inferno he'd created from spreading to the streets of the city...he felt an overwhelming loathing towards himself, and a confusion that had kept him in the cups for the past two days. Thank God for small favors, like being able to keep his head screwed on properly, despite the strong liquor flowing freely in his bloodstream.

V had better not be dead...because Finch had too many questions that needed to be answered, for his sanity alone. And besides, finally figuring out his identity would be much less satisfying if the man in question wasn't around to be unveiled. Finch never thought he'd see the day when he was restraining himself from hero-worshipping a terrorist and serial killer; but, as a see of Guy Fawkes' masks stared up at him, awaiting further instruction he couldn't help but admire the man, whoever he was.

When it came down to it, the difference between being a hero or a villain was all about a persons' PR to a certain extent. Despite the atrocities V had committed, he was a hero now, whether or not it was deserved. He had committed himself to doing what he believed to be right, and that online made him a champion, made him truly courageous.

Eric continued on throughout the day, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than V, Evey Hammond, or the future of England. Things preceded smoothly, both at the Parliament site and in the areas surrounding, where power was rapidly being restored. He'd requested that he not be interrupted unless something of extreme importance needed to be brought to his attention, so when a rather young and nervous officer approached him with a woman trailing behind, Finch had granted him little more than an irritably snapped, "What?"

"A lady to see you sir." And the boy had run off.

He inclined his head toward the woman, who stuck out a hand as she approached. "Good afternoon, Chief Inspector Finch."

He didn't take the offered hand when she came into reach to grasp it, but instead stared, dumbstruck, at the vision in front of him, before slowly pulling a cigarette out of its carton, his gaze never leaving her face.

"Bloody Hell...Evey Hammond."

She smiled thinly.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: _As always, with every chapter...I love seeing your reviews. Let me know what you thought. So finally, we have Evey and Finch meeting. Expecting it yet, hmm?  
_


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Notes**: _Thank you's go out to my reviewers, you guys are so wonderful with all your positive encouragement! I know that lately I've been an ass about updating, really I do! I've been busy like you wouldn't believe, and haven't had much time to write, or to read. :C_

_On a different note: I do hope for an increase in reviews for the next few chapters, simply for the fact that I'd like to know what page you guys are all on for the idea of a sequel to Playing the Saviour._

_The tentative plot sets the story a year into the future, beginning with the elections for the first true government since Norsefire, and picking up from that point. So far, I'm more interested in expanding the characters of Dascomb, Dominic, and Finch in this story rather than V and Evey, but they would all be featured. I'm thinking this story would have Finch as our leading man, with Dascomb only slightly less important, with Dominic, V, and Evey all as strictly supporting characters._

_Any one interested in seeing something like this?_

* * *

Evey Hammond was no fool, and despite the tumultuous events of the Fifth and the supposed change of heart from the current institution, which was no real institution at all... _(A donation made from English government to her of all people...Codename V's accomplice!) _She was still acutely aware that she was technically a wanted woman. Leaving the protection the Shadow Gallery in such turbulent times was **not** something she had planned on doing, but V had so infuriated her that he had left her with very few other options. Each click of her heel upon the cold pavement below echoed louder than its predecessor, vainly aiming to drown out the anger and the despair in V's voice, whose words continued to reverberate in the forefront of her conscious.

"_You should go tomorrow, to help clean the debris of Parliament."_

Yes...he'd thought she should help. It'd been his suggestion that she leave him alone in the Shadow Gallery, while he still resembled something closer to a pin cushion rather than a human being, to help the volunteers clean up the mess he'd made of everything. Despite everything, there she was basking in the bitter November morning, following his leadership blindly and for all the wrong reasons.

And why had her masked vigilante wanted_ her_ to go, when the glory belonged solely to him?

"_Because you, my dear; you have become a symbol to the people, like Parliament, and like me. Finch and Dascomb are much smarter men than I had believed them to be, if they understand that the people wish to honor that."_

"Oh some symbol!" Evey puffed as she trudged down the surprisingly busy streets of London; her indignant grumblings freezing in the air before her as the sun had yet to truly warm the late autumn morning. She was not sure if she was deluded or if it was V, but was the only reason she was at all well known, (though apparently hard to recognize on a crowded street) because he'd been her knight in shining amour for one brief night little more than a year previous.

Oh she'd helped him out that day at the BTN, which had been simultaneously brave, but rather dimwitted of her...but what she was supposed to do? The Fingermen were always eager for a bit of sport, and she hadn't even been close to the first victim of these Norsefire supported thugs or close to the last...and he had saved her from that pitiful fate. And then there stood her rescuer before her, a gun barely a foot away from the Guy Fawkes' grin, except that this time it was her chance to do the rescuing...and how could she not take it? It'd been an impulse...it hadn't been the heroic gesture of a freedom fighter, but a year later...a freedom fighter was what she'd become...and if he'd had simply let the Fingermen have their fun that night...she'd be no more important than any other face in the crowd, and no more to be pitied than any other tarnished good.

When Evey chose to ruminate on the masked man who'd had swiftly become such a vital part of her happiness and an instrumental vehicle in the person whom she'd become, Evey was not always pleased with what she saw...for all that V was a rebel, a human catalyst of social change even, she'd experienced first hand the consequences of defying him; he had no tolerance for going against the so-called establishment when that establishment was _him_. It seemed ridiculously hypocritical of him...but so few seemed to remember that behind the mask was a man, as real and as flawed, (perhaps even more so) than any other. They were a dismal pair, the both of them...similar in how bitterly they had known unhappiness in their lives, how their bodies had been marked by torture, and in how easily they had managed to betray the other, emotional or physical. They were both experts on inflicting pain on those they claimed to love.

From the depths of her very soul, a slow, snarling fury at V clawed its way into her thoughts. All the anger and the hurt of those weeks in which she'd been a "Norsefire" prisoner that she'd managed to repress and even believed herself to have overcome, had begun to bubble to the surface ever since V's first scathing criticism, and now, as she moved swiftly to her destination...his symbol...it threatened to overwhelm her. She grimaced with restrained bitterness and pulled the stylish cap she wore over her cropped hair tighter and fought down the urge to cry, or to scream.

Was love always this difficult for people to cope with...and always so intermingled with hate, pity, and fear?

Somehow, her footsteps had led her to the sight of Parliament, where scores of people, hired and volunteer alike, were fast working to clear the area of any dangerous wreckage. It had not been an intelligent choice...she was a known criminal, shaved head or not, and oversized sunglasses and fashionable hat were a rather conspicuous disguise in November, even with the sun shining bright overhead. Besides, everywhere she turned, _his_ face stared up at her...sometimes with nonchalance, sometimes with genuine happiness, but mostly it seemed, with a sneering and disgusted veneer, and it was hard to put a stopper on all the emotions looking into those dark eyes could so easily unleash.

Whenever Evey had tried to think of a Post-Fifth England, it had been incredibly difficult to imagine. The idea of an institution like Norsefire crumbling to nothing but ashes was such an abstract concept...there hadn't been a successful revolution in her life time...but of all things, she hadn't been expecting the calmness. High Chancellor Sutler had always warned that without Norsefire, Britain as they knew it would turn to a chaotic hell on earth. Evey wasn't fool enough to be completely immersed in propaganda from a power hungry leader like Sutler, but that had always been a fair enough assumption.

What had she expected from the English people after the fall of their government? Chaos, undoubtedly...uninhibited anarchy had seemed sure, but before her eyes stood hardworking citizens, working in harmony with one another to limit the destruction of their revolution to its intended victim only. For all that she had hoped for inconspicuousness when she left the confinements of the Shadow Galley, she managed to stand out like a sore thumb in the crowd before her. She'd dressed too smartly for the occasion, black pristine tailored slacks, well polished heeled shoes, and the charcoal turtle neck that peaked out from behind an expensive pea coat did not blend well with the tattered denim and work boots that surrounded her.

Evey watched with the crowd growing fascination where she stood, impatiently tapping her heel on ash-dirtied cement as two young officers argued over whether or not they ought to take her to see their Chief Inspector like she had requested, when he had apparently ordered that he was not to be disturbed unless some sort of crisis developed. She half-heartedly eavesdropped on their conversation, and caught rushed, anxious snippets from the pair.

"'Reckon she must be somebody important, mate. Blimey, didja see how she's dressed?"

Beneath darkened lenses, Evey winced, but yet felt some small thanks. If looking as though she were a person of important would aid her quest in receiving an audience with the Chief Inspector, than it would well be worth it. As she had hurriedly picked an outfit that morning, she'd felt for some inexplicable reason that she would need to make an impression, wherever she was headed...but she certainly hadn't left with any particular plan in mind.

"Well bloody 'ell...maybe you 'aven't noticed but the pecking orderzabit different around 'ere now."

Their voices lowered once more, and one boy, presumably the superior of the two, seemed to be giving the other (her defender) a rough time. Sensing that her side may be losing the battle, she approached the pair, to speak, her voice taking on airs of snobbery she'd never before tried to mimic.

"Pardon me gentlemen," Evey began with a small, condescending smile, "but while you quarrel amongst yourselves as to whether my business is important enough to bother your employer with, you are wasting a good deal of my valuable time. I suggest that you both desist in your bickering and take me to see the Chief Inspector now, or I will contact him in a few day's time and I will see to it that it is both of your necks he seeks in his fury at this meeting being delayed."

When their eyes met hers, faces slack-jawed and dumbstruck, she tried her hardest to push away the thought that her words had been V's rather than her own.

After an awkward moment, the youngest of the pair regained his senses and agreed to take Evey to Finch. The sight of the Parliament wreckage was huge, and she had quickly realized that trying to find a man she'd only ever seen in a crowded hallway during the evacuation of Jordan Tower and on the telly would be quite a hard needle to find in that proverbial hay stack. It took a quite a few minutes to reach their destination as her escort rushed through the crowd with a large gait, leaving the diminutive Evey to keep pace in her heels.

As soon as they came upon the Head of Police, Evey's guide was gone as quickly as he could be, his partings words nothing more than a swift, "A lady to see you sir."

Evey drew a breathe as the Chief Inspector inclined his head, turning to face her and approaching. She observed the man, his dark curls lightly sprinkled with grey, and solemn brown eyes watching her critically, she thought idly that if he'd been smiling or pouting they'd almost be puppy eyes. She was nervous, oh lord, she was nervous...but Evey had learned something from all that time as a prisoner, and gaining resolve stuck out her hand to shake.

"Good afternoon, Chief Inspector Finch."

There was a brief pause. The man made no movement, except to pull a cigarette from its carton. Although he didn't look frightened and had made no sudden movements, however, surprise was clearly visible in his eyes.

"Bloody hell...Evey Hammond."

Evey smiled thinly and then moved to pull the sunglasses off of her face. "You're the first person that's recognized me, Chief Inspector. You deserve your job."

He spluttered, fumbling inside his coat pocket for a match set. "Of course I recognize you Ms. Hammond. I've spent months memorizing your face, your life's story. The only thing I don't know about you is where you've been!"

Evey forced a smile that didn't manage to reach her eyes. "Yeah," she murmured in an attempt at light-heartedness, "I guess I've made a pretty good fugitive then, huh?"

"Considerably." Finch replied, almost as if it were a swear. "Creedy was pushing rather hard to black bag me because I couldn't manage to get my hands on you. And fucking hell, here you are, standing in front of me without a care in the world."

It took some restraint on Evey's part not to gulp with fear, and instead she managed to let out some sort of strangled laughter.

Finch continued, his voice almost wistful, "None of that matters anymore, not with the state Sutler and Creedy are in."

Evey's amber eyes widened, "They've been found?"

Finch shot her a look of disbelief. "We've always assumed you were in some way entangled with Codename V, Ms. Hammond."

She didn't know what to say to his blatant way of putting it, unsure whether it was a statement or an accusation, instead, she ignored it entirely and shot back, "Is there something I should know?"

The somber face grew even darker. "It's not normal protocol for me to tell civilians classified information." His voice lowered to such a soft lilt that Evey strained to hear him. "Circumstances being what they are however...I can tell you at the very least to ask your friend just how he managed to do it."

"They're dead."

It was a rhetorical question, and even if Finch had needed to answer it for her, he certainly wasn't going to. The police's proceedings were technically none of her business.

"I need to go."

Regret was filling Evey to the brim. With the Inspector Finch's words, she had finally understood that V's November 5th suicide plans had not been as simple as she had first imagined them. He had not set down that corridor to simply meet his maker, and repay him in kind for all he had done...he'd been going on an errand to murder the tyrants. He'd wanted to take that risk, his own precious life, to rid the world of those two vile men. And god, the scorn she'd given him for it! The pity, the hate, and the disappointment!

V had tried to explain...she could hear his pleas in an instant, full of soft despair and laced with reverence for her. _"Evey...Evey, you must understand..."_

She'd interrupted him. "_Oh no, I understand perfectly."_

She hadn't understood...she hadn't understood in the least bit. How many of their disagreements could they prevent if they would simply listen to one another? How much wasted bitterness had already ensued from something so simple, so trivial, as unsaid words? She was a damn fool, and perhaps V was one as well.

"I need to go." She was turning to leave, she was eager to get back to him...

"Ms. Hammond!"

Finch was grabbing her arm, rooting her to her spot.

"Yes?" She'd practically snarled it. What was she doing there with him anyway?

"Ms. Hammond, there are many, many, things I'd like to discuss with you. Please, give me some way to contact you!" His brown eyes were pleading with her, his voice sounded almost panicked.

"I'm sure I'll be in touch." She hissed, wrenching from his grasp, "You're not a hard man to track down."

She turned her back and was walking away as fast as her heeled feet would carry her. Her heart raced, and with each beat, she heard herself inwardly whispering his name, like she could summon him to her if she thought on him hard enough.

Oh God, why were humans destined to be such insipid, dull-witted creatures?

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**Author's Notes**: _Three more chapters until this story is finished, I believe._

_I hope everyone enjoyed this one, it'd been a while since I focused primarily on Evey and really got into her head, and so I think she felt I was overdue...as always, please review, give your thoughts on the chapter, the story as a whole, and the possible sequel. :D_


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Notes**: Yes, I'm perfectly aware how long it's been since I last updated. Ugh, believe me...it probably frustrates me more than it does any of you eager readers. I'm really looking to the point where I can draw this story to a close...I've been a fanfiction writer for about four years now, and Playing the Saviour is going to be my first completed story, which is something of a huge accomplishment in my own eyes.

As to you reviewers, thank you, thank you, thank you!!! x 999999999999! I love getting feedback on my writing (as you all are well aware of by now, and seeing those reviews puts such a huge smile on my face). Speaking more directly to my fellow V For Vendetta author LikeRain, I've really got to say that your review was one of the most flattering things another author has ever said to me. If my writing inspires other people in any small way, that's just about the best thing I could have possibly done with it.

**Warning**: This chapter has a semi-graphic murder scene described in paragraph 9. If anyone is extremely squeamish, I'd recommend glossing over it.

P.S. I've looked into it, and I can't find an official last name for Dominic. Anyone know it?

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Dominic Snow didn't have any illusions about himself. He liked his job and knew he was good at it, (admittedly not as fast on the pickup as his boss and a tad too trigger happy), and he knew that his moral standard was nothing to be ashamed of, which was really saying something considering the times he lived in. He also knew that he was lucky, very lucky, and he was generally damn grateful for it.

While so many people had lost their loved ones in the hell that had been St. Mary' Virus and the Reformation, Dominic's family had been blessed. He was the only child of a Norsefire pundit and his housewife, whose extended family was small and mostly estranged. He'd never had to know the grief of losing his parents to black bags or to disease, unlike most people he knew. He hadn't been hardened to personal loss, which he reflected, might not have been the best thing for him...amidst all the pandemonium following the fifth, he had not expected to have to deal with this as well.

"We gather here on this somber day to remember Robert Snow, an honest man of power and honor, a beloved leader, husband, father, and friend."

His father was dead. He'd been a well known and well-hated Norsefire official, and supposedly had tried to quell an angry mob that was out for blood. According to the witnesses, one man, dressed in full Guy Fawksian costume, had silently come forward and knifed Robert Snow down. He had been a very large man, portly from birth and obese from age, but a well placed incision across his abdomen had spilt blood and severed organs. Brown eyes popped in surprise, and a man whom had often talked until he was blue in face had no chance at last words to be remembered by.

It had been Dominic that had answered the call that night...Dominic was the detective in charge of the "regular" things with Finch preoccupied with all the business of the fifth. It was the police custom to answer all complaints with one pair of officers, and when scared civilians and rang into the station talking about a mob of some twenty people advancing on a lone man on the street below, only one car was sent as per usual.

The next step was always to send a second car with a second pair of officers if the first set did not report back that the situation was clear within ten minutes...obviously if back up was called for before the ten minute mark it would come with all do haste, however that was rarely the case. If the juncture reached twenty minutes...a third car would be sent out...this one a detective and an officer, prepared to act as backup or as a crime scene investigator.

On 11:38pm, November the 6th, 2025...the first set of police had come to the mob scene of downtown London, sirens blaring into the night...only to arrive to see the last trickle of the crowd running off into the night. They had two choices, to pursue, or to ascertain the scene...and the partners chose to ascertain, rather than to commence with a wild goose chase.

When they noticed the blood on the ground and the pair of legs illuminated by the headlights of their car, they knew they'd made the right choice. Once they realized they had a corpse on their hands, rather than an injured civilian, they called for the proper backup. The victim had had no identification...Dominic had had no idea that his car was leading him to the sight of his father's murder...

If the butchery had stopped with the gruesome stabbing, Dominic would have been able to hold back the bile rising in his throat as he listened to the priest go on with the services. But a mob would not be so feared if they were know for their mercy, and his father had not received any kindness from the animals that corned him. The coroner claimed that the knife wound had instantly killed him due to the mutilation of so many muscles and organs, as well as his body's inability to cope with the pain, and that alone was something to be thankful for now. The crowd had beaten the man, showing no restraint, no semblance of human feeling. His hair had been torn from his head and beard, blood dribbling down from the roots...his intestines seemed to have been ripped from his body by a person's actual hand, a large chunk of which had been flattened some sixteen feet away...and that was not the entire extent of the damage done.

And he'd been the one to outline it in chalk...

Dominic's mother sat next to him, her stony expression made even more so by the black lace veil so expertly worn over her face, and she stared at the coffin with forced indifference. He did not look to his mother for comfort at this sad and surprising event, nor did she from him...there was no love lost between the pair, and neither saw the use in trying to change their ways now.

The cemetery was overflowing with people...all of whom had once been important, before Parliament fell...they had worked hard, had sacrificed so much...and somehow an impromptu demolition had ended all their dreams. Years of hard work...of late nights and threats and struggle had been turned into nothing from one brightly lit night sky.

For a brief moment, Dominic was filled with rage. He'd been there...been apart of the crowd that had watched with awe and pride as Norsefire crumpled to it's knees...he could have been standing beside his father's killer, both of their eyes turned toward the heavens, when he should have been tracking them down and arresting every last one of V's supporters. Inside his suit jacket, a gloved hand tightly gripped the handle of his gun, some anger ebbing away at the familiar feel of his weapon in his hand. Dominic let out a heavy sigh, his breath crystallizing in the crisp November air...an unspoken thought frozen in time.

His mother had managed to pull all the political strings still left to her to have the funeral the next day...to her and those of her crowd, it was a dark time, and dangerous...she could not wait even a day for her husband to be in the ground. It was unusual, but that was the result of fear...a man dead eleven o'clock on the sixth...long buried by eleven o'clock on the seventh.

People were standing...the service was over. Disjointed from the scene, Dominic watched as the coffin was lowered into the earth...unaffectedly he stood at his mother's side nodding along to well-wishers, looking on as they tossed flowers onto Robert Snow's grave. It was some strange kind of nightmare that he would never wake up from...the lines moved tortuously slowly...and then all at once it was over, and he and his mother were utterly alone.

Mary Snow turned her head toward her son, opening her mouth to speak, and shutting it only a moment later...she glanced over to the car where her driver stood patiently waiting, down to the uncovered grave, and back up to Dominic's face. Unmoving, unblinking, he stared out into a distant nothing...seemingly unaware or apathetic. Her teeth tugged lightly on her lower lip, a universal sign of nervousness or thought...and she took a step toward her car, and then turned her head toward her son once more.

"Dommy..."

It was futile whispers of a name...a weak, half-hearted attempt to try and make this awkwardness of years disappear with a word.

His ears pricked at the long forgotten nickname...an image of a child with a mop of brown hair flashed before his eyes, and an almost feral longing for motherly affection ignited inside him, though inaccessible, and therefore impossible to placate. Instead of saying anything...especially what he felt, his head turned toward her in a deep nod, and wide eyes looked at her with a coldness and vacancy.

Mary glanced down once more at the husband she'd buried and then at the son she'd lost so long ago. Resolutely taking a step toward him, she planted red painted lips against his cheek in a tender kiss, and then turned on her heel, walked over to the waiting car, slid in the backseat and drove away, and didn't look back.

The minutes passed slowly, marked by the monotonous ticking of an old-fashioned pocket watch that hung between Dominic's limp fingers. It had been his father's prized possession, and he could feel the bitter chill of the metal through a layer of thick woolen gloves. It was an especially cold morning, and seemed even more so when he realized that besides the pair of grave diggers, he was utterly alone. He hated how empty he felt...how much he lacked the empathy to care about his own father...he should have been devastated...but, instead, he felt a gaping void inside himself.

Eventually, Dominic slid to his knees, damp grass staining the fabric of his expensive suit. The sound of the dirt being unceremoniously thrown down onto the coffin echoed lightly, and the two men giving his father his final most send off did they're best to ignore his presence. He squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to brace himself against the awful noise their task made...and then with a moment of clarity, they flashed open again.

"Stop!"

It was a desperate plea, feral and heartrending, and not the first the gentlemen had heard. But Dominic was stumbling to his feet, blindly running to the edge of his grave and throwing himself into the hole before either man could restrain him.

"In the name of God, stop!" He cried, and he sunk down on his hands and knees like an animal, frantically digging through the thin coating of soil that covered Robert Snow. He tore through the earth reaching the flowers and tossing their sweet deposit this way and that until finally a glimpse of red. Dominic lunged at the flower, clutching it so hard with his hands that the stem snapped in his grip. Transfixed he stared at the seemingly innocent flower...ignoring the startled and disgruntled calls of the grave diggers, and not bothering to brush them off as they brusquely pulled him out from the depths of his father's final resting place.

"Sir, now try and listen to me...death's hard to deal with and all that...but you can't just go trying to bury yourself with the dead now...can you?"

The voice was gruff and soothing, but any words of consolation were of little use, Dominic could hear none of them. His eyes flashed hotly, and he pulled away from the pair with one swift, violent movement. "You don't understand..." he snipped, clutching the flower tighter in his grasp, "_He_ was here."

"Bloody hell, he's off his rocker innit he?"

Two sets of eyes met, ascertaining that their thoughts were in agreement.

There was a slight pause and then, "Listen Gary, let him alone...Who's here sir?"

It was a question needing no answer from Dominic Snow, as the undetected mourner took this moment to unveil himself to his audience. The terrorist known as V emerged from behind a monument that stood several feet high. His strides were long and confident as he approached the trio, and his words rolled off his tongue with all their usual eloquence.

"Thank you for hospitable welcome on this tragic day, my kind sirs...My apologies on intruding into a private scene." V's words were spoken with a swaggering air, and his arms were out-stretched accenting his smug demeanor as he approached.

The grave-diggers stepped back, distancing themselves from the man who was both fervently admired, and reverently feared by the pair. The young detective, however; stood erect, his gaze never leaving the black slits of Guy Fawkes' eyes. His hand clenched tighter still.

"Tell me...did you kill him?" Dominic's words were more an order than a question, but they did little to dissuade V from carrying on.

"Did I kill him? No...I can not claim that honor to be directly mine. I am merely catalyst, not the reactant...I will not take credit where credit is not due...I come today merely as a spectator of life, and to share in its triumphs and tragedies. All the world's a stage, detective, and all the men and women merely players...The play today is the tragedy 'Man' and its hero the conqueror, Worm. I come as audience and nothing else...I give you my word."(i) The mask cocked to and fro as the language, so beautifully executed, poured from the lips of the grinning facade and Dominic felt bile rise as he bared witness.

Images of his father's entrails splattered across cold pavement flashed before his eyes, and suddendly the void of his father's demise was filled with the need to draw blood and with a wrath filled snarl he was rushing toward V, gun pulled from it's holster and aimed, ready to kill as none of the other bullets had done before. "You son of a bitch!" Dominic screamed, "You fucking son of a bitch! You killed him! You fucking killed him, and I'll kill you!"

But V had survived countless bullets before this moment, and he wouldn't be slaughtered by one-grief stricken son of a Norsefire monster. His knives were ready and meticulously arranged...before Dominic could pull the trigger, he found himself in a stalemate with the most dangerous man in the country.

"You can kill me, if your need for revenge is so overwhelming, Mr. Snow; but I can assure you, you will not live long enough yourself to feel the triumph of it."

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**Author's Notes**: _So I know I don't update as quickly as anyone would like...including myself...but I can still beg you to review, right?_

_A sentence in this line of dialogue was paraphrased from both Shakespeare's __As You Like It__, and Edgar Allen Poe. "All the world's a stage, detective, and all the men and women merely players...The play today is the tragedy 'Man' and its hero the conqueror, Worm."_

_As You Like It, William Shakespeare_

_"All the world 's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts" - (Act II, Scene VII)._

_Edgar Allen Poe_

_The play is the tragedy "Man"_

_And it's hero the conqueror, Worm._


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Notes: ** _To start this on a cheerful note, Happy Holidays, everyone! And for all non-denominational readers...Seasons' Greetings! I know...I haven't updated since...September. This is, to put it frankly, utterly despicable of me. But chapter 11 is (finally) here, and for all you romance fans in the audience, a pretty good read. I plan on updating well before the end of January, and I only hope that you guys are still hanging around and willing to leave constructive reviews for a lackadaisical updater. They really are a great inducement to get writing, even if I only manage to pump out a paragraph at that particular sitting. Better than nothing, right? Your input means a lot to me, and I'm sorry I haven't been better with getting my behind into gear._

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In the shadows of the Underground, a lone figure shifted restlessly, shrouded in darkness. This section of the public transportation system had been one of the first to be closed under then Under-Secretary of Defense Adam Sutler, and the abyss had known no light for a decade or more. Nature, as it was apt to, had taken over with the absence of people, but with no sun to warm passages under miles of earth, green things did not grow here...but rather it became home to one of the largest populations of rats in all of England.

If you were daring, and had enough incentive, you could go deep enough to begin to hear the first faint rustling of padded feet against slick tile and rough cement. If you clambered into the utility tunnels, passages made to use for repairs that were now in utter disarray, or into the sewers, the scurry of thousands of pairs of feet became deafening. If you were courageous enough or misguided enough to venture into the depths of England's own Hell-on-earth you would have to ignore the feeling of the creatures crawling over top your feet and hazard a hope that you would reach the end of your journey without being covered in bites and scratches.

Despite having used many of the exits of the Shadow Gallery, Evey Hammond was not nearly as acquainted with its entrances. It was the only one V had told her existed, and therefore her only means of entry to the hidden haven was difficult to navigate at best. Light, a brilliant, blinding light, was the only thing that could frighten off the rats. There were simply so many of them, that even they with their supposedly primitive minds were cognizant of how well they out numbered her. Had they the mind to, how easily one thousand rats could devour a single, defenseless woman...

Unfortunately Evey had no light at her disposal, having completely forgotten any precaution in her haste to return to V...her V. What was it that the Inspector had said that had shaken her so? She could hardly even remember it now; her head was overflowing with thoughts of him. Their relationship so far had been tumultuous, to put it into trivial terms, and yet somehow she felt as if she knew this man as intimately as she knew herself.

Embedded in-between tenuous truces had been wonderful discussions of literature, art, food, culture, and family (hers at least) and despite layer upon layer of lies they had told, calculated avoidances of one another...hell...despite the fact that he had kidnapped her, (twice!)...that she betrayed him and that he'd tortured her, albeit disguised as a Norsefire interrogator...November the fifth 2025 had marked them as friends...even tentative lovers...the lurking suspicions she'd always had that her own unfathomable feelings were requited by him had proven true in what nearly had been a death-bed confession.

"_For twenty years, I sought only this day – And then I saw you, and everything changed..."_

"_It seems I can deny you no happiness, Evey...Say the word to me and the Earth is yours."_

And with his melodic voice resounding in-between her ears, she trudged through darkness and decay blindly; thin, tapered fingers trailing along mold covered walls to help guide her down narrow, pungent corridors. She'd never before in her adult life been so motivated to give so much for a person, and however the strange hold V had on her emotions began was unimportant, because the past few days had proven such an inclination to be no passing fancy.

In the rancid darkness she stood for trying her hardest not to count the minutes, all of which felt like infinities making an intricate web of one another. She had so much to say to him, and so few words to say it all in that she felt completely inadequate. V was always so verbose, so exquisitely effusive, where Evey was unshakably direct. But to try and smooth out the complexities of their relationship would take a subtly she wasn't sure she had...she was terrified of walking into the Shadow Gallery, even though V had told her she'd never find locked doors there again...she didn't know what to say...and she was petrified that she would lose him.

It seemed strange that anyone as fearless as her...a person, who had unflinchingly looked death in the eye, could still be so frightened of anything. But falling in love with V had slowly made Evey come to one of the most important revelations of her life...that the last inch of her that Valerie had urged her to protect in her letter...her last inch was not just her own integrity...her last inch _was_ V. She knew that it seemed hopelessly romantic and incredibly...weak of her...but Evey could not picture a life in which V was in the world and not thinking well of her...she couldn't bear the prospect of that...let alone a life in which V was gone...had she fallen in love with him for his ideals or his personality...she couldn't really say...they were so intermingled that it was impossible to tell.

All she knew that she had been willing to leave her own life forfeit to protect him...then and now. Selflessly, his safety was valued above her own life...she could be satisfied as long as she knew V was secure.

Shivering in the black chill of the underground, Evey soon lost herself in silent reverie, her thoughts drifting as she tried to comprehend all the events that had happened in the past week. Her body was trapped in limbo, undecided as to whether or not she would walk once more into this secret entrance to the Shadow Gallery...if she even had any right to invade his home. Choice was taken out of her hands by a bright light filling the dank corridor, a Guy Fawkes mask looming above its source.

She took a sharp step backward colliding with the veiled door that she knew opened to warmth and reassuring light. "V..." she breathed, unsure if this apparition in front of her eyes was as true as it appeared. "V, I'm so sorry..."

For his own part, V was equally as shocked to see Evey loitering in front of the entrance to his home...after all he'd said to her he expected that when she had turned her back on him and walked out he'd never see her walk in again. He'd convinced himself that his Evey was gone for good this time. He'd requested no promise of return from her upon this exit unlike her departure several months prior, and could not comprehend her wanting to come of her own accord...especially after the things he had said to her...

_"Your concern in my well-being it would seem, is nothing more than a facade to mask your fear of change, Evey."_

"Evey..." The mask tilted downward, feeling the lingering shame of his uncalled for reprimands. What had prompted him to say such terrible things to her? Underneath Guy Fawkes's grinning facade, V was grimacing. "Evey...I did not expect to find you here."

_"Would you like me to reassure you in my happiness that you value my humble life higher than the call of freedom?"_

He hadn't expected to find her anywhere near him ever again...she claimed to care for him and V had rejected her oaths as excuses for cowardice...and yet she stood at his doorstep. V couldn't help but think that any deity above must enjoy playing him for a fool...how could one man live a life that had been full of so much pain and sorrow and yet be tempted to live simple for sporadic moments of extreme happiness? It was only in a touch, a look...a hint of a smile on her lips...but it was enough to make V wish for a hundred years more of life, if only for the chance to see that phantom of her wistful smirk once more.

Evey took a hesitant step toward him, millions of thoughts racing through her mind. She wanted to ask him so many things...was he still furious at her for not pulling the lever...did he regret that he was still alive after the fifth? Did he want her to come back? But the only words that came out were simplistic and practical. "You were just hurt...you shouldn't be out. You should be resting." She took another step, wincing at the brilliance of his flashlight in her eyes.

V turned his head away from her, unwilling to meet her gaze. "I...my body..." his words came in short bursts, his tone nervous. "It does not heal as others do, my dear. I mend with remarkable swiftness..."

There was a doubtful pause and then she said, "Oh, I see."

And then there was rage. V shut his eyes, his grip tightening around the fabric of a man's shirt...something Evey hadn't noticed as it was hidden in the blackness on the other end of his torch.

"_And the mask, Evey...Did the doctor's take that off as well?"_

"Yes, you have seen...haven't you?" He growled, a velvety whisper, laced with danger... "You know my body as well as I do by now."

He stepped forward; matching her approach...they stood dangerously close now...her pale face completely washed out by light...Guy Fawkes' veneer caricatured by shadows. The warmth of the other's body radiated in hot waves against their bodies...his voice had remained low and predatory, and had this been a year past, Evey would have been petrified...but V's own lessons would now work against him.

She stood her ground, her chocolate eyes flashing. "I was trying to save you. They would have arrested you if they saw you like that...not helped you."

"And in saving me, you robbed me of all that I have...and rejected the single greatest gift I have ever offered anyone." He snarled. It was a quiet snarl, audible only to her...but so intense it made her skin crawl.

But Evey would not be intimidated, her own fire matching his. Instead she took another step toward him, her small frame being completely dwarfed by his height. She tilted her head up to stare him down, and the flashlight pressed against her stomach...the gloved fingers wrapped around it were being forced against the soft material of her jacket.

"That mask is all you have? Someone _else's_ face is _your_ last inch V!?...Don't try and tell me that it is...you're just afraid, and it makes you angry to admit it to yourself, let alone to me."

It had been years since V had known fresh anger, caused by the heat of the moment. He was accustomed to the emotion that prompted revenge...a anger that stewed inside a person for years...he hardly knew what he was doing he was so heated...

"As for your second accusation...that I rejected the gift you gave me...the gift of the lever...it was mine to do with what I would..."

His hands were shaking...his breathes were coming out in sharp gasps for air. Her words only incensed him, and the passion in her eyes and the nearness of her body made him so strikingly aware of her presence that he was completely overwhelmed. The flashlight slipped from his grasp, the light bulb shattering inside its plastic confinement. It made a dull thud as it hit the floor that echoed throughout the tunnels, sending rats scattering back into even darker recesses of their home.

They stood in total darkness...neither of their eyes ready to accommodate such a sudden change.

Startled by the sudden noise, Evey had instinctively leaned into V, seeking protection from an imagined threat. Her hands were on his arms in the lightest of touches, her head tilted into the hollow of his neck. In his eyes, mere mortals were not made to be tempted with such a temptation as this.

Adrenaline rushed through his veins, anger, confusion, and passion all influenced him, but tenderness directed him as he raised Guy's lips higher than his own in the black of the underground, capturing hers in a searing kiss.

By no means was it ideal or well executed, V had little experience or knowledge to draw from, and Ever had been taken totally unawares...but their bodies knew each other better than their conscious minds did, and the pair sunk into one another, feeling as though they were on fire.

Leather clad fingers dug into Evey's sides through layers of November warmth, pushing her against the wall gently, but urgently. Her arms wrapped around his back instinctively, knowing without though to not try and touch his face as he kissed her...And then it was over as soon as it had begun, and he was pulling away from her, his breathing heavy. Her cheeks were flushed, and she hoped he couldn't see them glow red in the gloom.

His voice laced with worship and fear, V whispered, "—from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged..."(i)

"V..." Evey whispered, unwilling to disentangle herself from him, "V, I love you."

He stopped...his response calculated and timid. "I know by now that it is not admissible to contradict a lady..."

But in this too, Evey was relentless. "V," she asked quietly, "Do you love me?"

With that question asked, V's hands tightened their hold on her. "I promised you only truth Evey...anything I have said, it has only been truth."

She frowned at his evasion. "Answer it for my own curiosity. I want to hear you say it. Do you love me, V?"

"Yes," He whispered hoarsely, "always."

Evey grinned at him, doubting that he could see her glowing smile in the perpetual night, but she grinned all the same, even though she'd never doubted his answer. "Don't ask me to apologize for saving your life again V...don't try to say that I ever rejected your gift to me...your gift was a choice, and I chose...for the first time since I was a little girl I got to make one of the most important decisions of my life for myself...and I chose to save you. It may have been selfish or stupid, and it may not have been what you wanted from me...but it was my decision, and I'll never regret it as long as I live, and I'll always be grateful that you let me choose."

He had no response to but to lean into her embrace, this new closeness intoxicating. He could almost feel her happiness leave her and transcend into him, as if it were seeping in through the pores of his skin and slowing entering his bloodstream, filling him up.

"Madam," he said, his voice taking on it's normal inflections, "I would like to apologize for having ever berated you for making your own decision...when I gave you my gifts, my words where if you want it to be...if you had followed my own preferred course of action, it would have been what I wanted and not you...it would have not been a true gift."

One of V's hands moved up from her side, cupping her cheek. She smiled against the gentle gesture, her head turning to kiss the palm that held it. Just as she thought he would kiss her again in the blackness and she'd closed her eyes and tilted her head slightly, leaning into him...a low groan came from a nearby source.

Evey's head whipped around sharply, frightened and on the look out. "What was that?" she hissed sharply.

V had remained surprisingly nonchalant however, and simply bent over somewhat, pulling over with one hand a large dark lump that was indistinguishable without light.

"I suppose you could call _that_...a prisoner of war..."

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**Author's Notes:** _It could have been longer, I know...but I hope you all thought it was worth the wait. _


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Notes:** _I'll begin with apologies. Most of you who've been frequent readers and reviewers have probably given up on this story as abandoned. It isn't, and it's almost finished. I have two tentative chapters left, (including this one) and an epilogue. I'm sorry that this has taken so long, and I wish that it hadn't...but what can I really say? There's a world outside of fanfiction that sucks up a great amount of time and energy. I was involved in two plays, I was failing a class, I had two AP Exams to review for, my aunt passed away suddenly, I have scholarship writing that I've been preoccupied with, and I have a boyfriend, friends, and a part-time job. I'm just really ashamed of myself for how difficult it's been for me to be a frequent updater, but I'm still here, and I'm going to finish this story! I promise._

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Evey had always enjoyed sunlight. The brilliance of that nearby star cascading down upon her in warm seductive waves, the lovely feeling of golden rays sinking into her pale, olive skin. As a child she had basked in the delicious glow of the summer months, closing her eyes to the world and forgetting all the troubles of a terrible childhood as the sky radiated endless life. Sitting in the kitchen of the Shadow Galley, a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea cradled between slender hands, the realization began to sink in that a life with V would mean a life resigned to the shadows. She loved him...Lord, how she loved him...effortlessly, beautifully, truly...but she felt so young and small as she thought of all the implications of the past few days.

V was a walking enigma...a living, breathing quandary that Evey would spend the rest of her life mulling over. He would never be easy to live with...would he ever be comfortable enough to take off his mask in the comforts of their home? Would V expect her to live in the Shadow Gallery forever; or would they take a house together somewhere in town? Would he marry her? Could he marry her? There were endless questions drifting in and out of her consciousness as deliciously scented steam wafted toward her nose.

Her paramour was a choice that very few would ever understand...disfigured, nameless; someone with no clear past or future. He was a revenge filled murderer who could not seem to forgive or forget any wrong done to him...he believed he was vindicated in his right to treat others in any way he saw fit, including her. In disguise, he had raped her of all her dignity. He had shaved her head and taken her clothes and forced her to endure a waking nightmare that the darkest recesses of her mind could have never conjured. He was the most famous fugitive in the history of England, he'd lead to the deaths of innocent people, and he was an insane anarchist that would give his own life in the name of liberty.

He also kissed her with mindless passion and reverent tenderness, loved her with such ardent fury and fervor that she knew she would never want to be loved by another for as long as she lived. He helped her grow as a human being, he opened her eyes to art and poetry, he destroyed her fears...But despite all that, V was still V...and an unconscious detective was sprawled out onto the bed that had been hers for the many months she had made her home in the Shadow Galley.

She recognized the young man from the BTN, and wondered vaguely as she sipped her tea if he'd be resentful of the pepper spray after more than a year of its use. V hadn't been gentle with him at all, and an angry red bump on his temple was steadily growing. She had fired questions about his "prisoner of war" nonstop since V had shown her the shadowy figure in the underground, but to little avail. V promised that all would be explained with time, dumped Detective Stone in her bedroom, put on a kettle and said he would be back soon.

Would their relationship always be moments of unadulterated passion, followed by political maneuvering? Evey frowned against her teacup, placed it on the table, and crossed through the kitchen into the main room, headed for the jukebox. The Gallery needed music to feel alive so many miles beneath the earth's surface, especially when V was gone. Evey couldn't imagine how a person could bear the solitude of the place without going mad.

She crossed back to her seat at the kitchen table and let the soft jazz envelop her, closing her eyes to smooth, tan stones, and priceless art. She needed to relax; she needed to have a clear mind for a few blessed moments. She needed to process. How many times in the past few days had she gone from desolation to utter joy? The world was rid of Sutler and Creedy, and soon all of Norsefire. V was alive, and loved her...the streets were free to roam again. It would be a great deal for any person to absorb, let alone her.

Meanwhile, Dominic Stone was stirring.

The detective could not remember that last time his had had ached with such a blinding pain. The soreness he was feeling was not the unrelenting ache of one too many cocktails or the piercing sting of a migraine, but rather he felt as though his entire skull was on fire. He was in too much pain to even begin to think about how the intense sensation had come about.

The feeling of cool fabric against his skin had a soothing affect, as well as the dim lights and faint smell in the air of aging paper and Earl Grey tea. As his consciousness slowly began to reenter the realm of the living his first inclination was to take in a liberal whiff of the air before even opening his eyes. Soft strains of pleasant, low, music drifted in and out of his ears, and an addled mind somehow felt comforted by the homey feeling it evoked.

One bleary eye slowly opened, and then the other. Incredulously they took in his surroundings and Dominic struggled to piece together his memories. Because he had no recollection of having slipped into darkness, it was difficult for him to sense how much time had gone by and his frustration grew with each passing moment.

Disregarding his body's protests, he sat up, and swung his bare feet over the side of the bed where they came in contact with smooth stone tile, cold enough to send a shiver up his spine. It was only then that he became truly cognizant of his surroundings...the towers of books scattered throughout the room...his pants, dress shirt, jacket, and gloves, set in a neat pile at the foot of the bed. His father's pocket watch lay on top of the pile, incessantly ticking, despite the cracked glass.

"Bloody Hell..." He murmured, running a hand across his brow and through chocolate tresses. "Bloody, fucking hell."

He spread his arms in front of him, lacing his fingers and gave his knuckles a good crack. He arched his back so that his chest propelled forward and rolled his shoulders, feeling his abused body cry out in agony. He stood wearily, his weight uncertain on his feet, and then cracked his neck. He glanced to his left and right, taking in the relative size of the room...and then swiped a solitary finger across the top of a pile of books, noting that the layer of dust that rested on it was slight.

He leaned over toward the foot of the bed and picked up the watch, wincing as blood rushed in and out of his head with the movements. Suddenly and wholly without warning, he realized where he had to be. This place, for all of its lovely smells and soothing music, was the hideout of the most famous terrorist in the history of England. A rush of memories of his father's funeral filled his head; they ended with one of V's knives at his throat.

He swore again. Despite the throbbing, there were certain things he was able to discern. V did not want Dominic dead...not yet, anyway. Always the detective, he turned the knob on the wooden door of "his" room and found that it was unlocked. He wasn't a prisoner in any hostile sense as of the moment. Unsure of what move he should make next, Dominic put the watch down on the pillow of the bed and unfolded his clothes. He brushed them off as best as he could...they were damp and somewhat dirty...and dressed himself.

His gun was gone, but the holster wasn't, and he strapped it on. The young officer glanced around the room looking for something he could use as a weapon, and found nothing useful. There was an old-fashioned metal alarm clock on the bed-side table that was ticking, but unset. Dominic picked it up, testing the weight in his hands, and decided that it could be used as a means of defense in a worst case scenario.

He turned the knob again, this time opening the door a crack. He glanced out into what appeared to be a living room of some kind, and finding it empty, slipped out of "his" room. The wooden door creaked loudly, the sound reverberating throughout the terrorist's home. "Shit." Dominic vehemently cursed under his breath, expecting V to swarm down on him. V didn't...But Dominic Stone should have been calculating for more than just the Fawksian-masked vigilante.

When Evey heard the door creak open, she didn't hesitate in her actions for an instant. Fear had been mercilessly beaten out of her; there was nothing that Detective Stone could do to her that scared her anymore. It could only be him on the other side of the squeaking door; the Shadow Galley did not make noises without explanation. V had designed it better than that. He may be stronger than her, he may have more motivation than her, but rather than cower in the corner of the kitchen, she acted quickly, and pulled a well sharpened cutting knife from the cutlery drawer.

In three quick steps she was standing in the kitchen entrance, fluorescent light spilling out in the main room, casting an ethereal glow around her silhouette. She stood with confidence, the knife tilted toward him in an eerily welcoming position.

"Hello." She said, coolly; her voice low and tone dulcet.

Internally, Dominic's first reaction was to hurl the alarm clock at her with as much force and speed as he possibly could. However, remembering the last time he had acted with his baser instincts and found himself at the tip of a very sharp knife, he kept his intuition in check and replied calmly... "Are you Evey Hammond?"

The way the light poured from behind her, it was difficult to make out her features, but Dominic could almost feel her smile. "I am." She answered, her head tilting slightly in acknowledgement.

There was a pause, a seemingly endless, meaningful pause. Dominic groped for words, and Evey waited patiently for him to regain his senses. He was just about to speak when she interrupted him, her voice honeyed as if she was calming a wild animal or a petulant child. "Would you like a cup of tea?" She asked sweetly. "I only just took the kettle off." Dominic frowned, dumbfounded at the question. "Or maybe some aspirin?" She added, "Your head must feel awful."

When Detective Stone had realized that he was trapped in the home of the most infamous revolutionary in the history of England, he had instantly envisioned himself in all sorts of horrifying scenarios, bloody and painful. An invitation from a reasonably attractive female only a few years younger than himself to share a cup with her had been far down on his list of possible situations, and was therefore the most disconcerting. He tried to process the words through his head and figure out her ulterior motive...but all he could think of was how very lovely a cup of tea and a couple of painkillers sounded in that moment.

"Actually...I could use a cup, Ms. Hammond." Dominic finally said, placing the clock on the floor next to the bedroom door, "the past few days haven't been the easiest." He took a tentative step toward her and the added hastily, "Just promise me you won't poison me or anything...I swear I've got no intention of harming you, even if I did have the means to do it."

She smiled at him softly, and beckoned him to enter the kitchen. He did, warily, and stopped when he noticed the knife glinting in her hand. "You think you could put that down somewhere Ms. Hammond?" He asked, his eyes searching her face for a hint of a threat.

"Of course," Evey responded softly, putting the knife back in its proper place. The glancing at him over his shoulder she said, "Well Mr. Stone, how do you take your tea?"

"Three sugars, if that's alright." He sat down at the table.

Evey fixed Dominic's cup and handed it to him, their fingers brushing lightly. It was a gesture of friendship between two people who Norsefire had pitted against one another as enemies...the first of many gestures that would take place between Evey and England in the upcoming months. Her amber eyes smiled at him over the rim of her cup, and his lips turned upward at her involuntarily, his mind still disbelieving what was happening.

There was a somewhat pleasant, somewhat heavy pause in the air and then Evey said aloud, "I'm afraid we don't have any biscuits."

"That's alright." Dominic replied. He frowned, took a sip and then asked, "Ms. Hammond, why the devil am I here?"

She placed her cup on her saucer and gave him her answer. "I have absolutely no idea. I asked V why he had you, but he said he would explain when he got back...from wherever he went off to. I don't think he was expecting you to come to so fast."

"My father...he was a somewhat important Party Member...he was killed the other day by a mob. V showed up at his burial after everyone else had gone except me and the grave diggers. I accused him of killing him...I attacked him actually. So I suppose my being here would have something to do with that."

"It makes sense. I don't think V wants to harm you, or you'd already be long dead. He loves to educate...he probably just wants to speak to you, Mr. Stone."

Dominic frowned again, and then glanced up at Evey Hammond, mentally comparing the vision before him to the many pictures he'd seen in the past year. The features of her face remained unaltered, and excluding her sheared hair there was no physical difference. But there was something undoubtedly different from this confident young woman; to the scared girl he'd chased down the corridors of Jordan Tower.

"Your hair is rather short Ms. Hammond. I don't mean to be a royal, bloody pain but that's rather conspicuous for a fugitive, don't you think?"

"It is," Evey agreed, forcing her tone to remain light. "Although it did well enough."

"Why'd you cut it so short? Sorry to pry, but it just seems a bit odd. A woman with a shaved head isn't a common thing since Reclamation."

There was an opportunity here to finally understand Evey Hammond that had eluded both Dominic and Finch for months. Detective Stone was determined not to waste it.

Evey rested her head on her hand, the tips of her fingers lightly caressing the shorn hair. Her eyes closed as memories seeped in, and she found that she was talking, despite her intentions.

"I was kidnapped a few months ago, and tortured. Shaving my head was a part of the process." She told him quietly. She felt her breathing change as snippets from the past invaded her mind, brutally raping her consciousness.

"Jesus." Dominic swore. There was nothing else he could think to say. He had difficulty in begin eloquent in a sensitive situation.

"Yeah." Evey sighed, opening her eyes. "Maybe you guys should have been focusing on rescuing me, rather than turning me into a criminal."

Dominic stared at her, his dark eyes attempting to bore a hole into her soul. There was so little that he and Finch knew about her or her masked companion, but suddenly he was envisioning what the past year could have held for her. He and Finch had always assumed that Evey had been a willing accomplice...her profile fit, and her actions at Jordan Tower easily confirmed that story. But they had never dug much past that surface. Motivation was always a primary component in understanding the mind frame of a criminal...but they'd never really stopped to consider hers.

"I'm sorry." Dominic said, completely sincere, "I really am Evey...Ms. Hammond. You did commit criminal acts though...so what else could we possibly do? What other conclusion were we supposed to make after you maced me when I could have gotten V?"

"The night I met V...he'd rescued me from those Fingermen. I was confused...I was terrified, I was lonely. I don't know why he invited me up on the top of that building to see the Old Bailey explode...I really don't. I think he wanted to have someone share in his triumph, I guess. But I think I went from him because he promised that after, he'd return me home safely...and I'd never been so scared before in my life."

A tapered finger circled the rim of her cup delicately, her eyes downcast, staring into the murky water contained within the porcelain. Thick lashes splayed out across her cheeks creating small, half moon shadows on smooth skin, and Dominic hardly dared to breathe from anticipation.

"The next day...well...when I heard what his plans were just like everyone else, I couldn't help but believe it, or want in, in some deep part of myself. And then when you had him cornered...it was a reaction, like a wild animal. And I suppose I owed him one, really. Next thing you know, I wake up here...just like you...and he tells me that I can't leave for a year."

She looked up at him from across the table, her lashes batting innocently as they fluttered upward.

Dominic gulped, suppressing any attraction he felt toward the enigmatic young woman. Attempting to be both professional and gentle, he commented. "You must have felt kidnapped, and lost...you must have hated him. But that's not the case now, is it?"

"It's not..." Evey smiled to herself tenderly, and Dominic was entranced. He'd never felt such an overwhelming urge to understand someone before meeting her in the flesh. She glanced at him, and then away. "It's not the case at all."

"Evey..."

Dominic let out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding and then continued.

"Evey...will you tell me your story? ...Your whole story?"

She took a hard, steady look into his eyes, and began, "Well...if you must know..."

The tea steamed idly, long forgotten.

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_**Author's Notes**:__ This is the longest chapter I've ever written of anything. In my entire life. It's been what? Seven months since I  
updated? I don't even know at this point. But this story isn't abandoned or forgotten. I hope all of those who read this chapter thoroughly enjoyed it. It may not have been what you expected to happen next, but all the loose ends will be tied up soon. I really, really hope that I receive reviews for this chapter...I hope you guys haven't forgotten that Playing the Savior exists...even though that's my fault. Hopefully the next update will be sometime before the end of this month, as I'm now on summer vacation and have much more free time at my disposal. But I won't make any promises. Just put the positive energy out there, hmmm?_


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